Planting Memories
by oneship
Summary: Dr. Beverly Crusher cannot remember why she has tried to remove the captain from command-ten days in a row-and as she struggles to solve the mystery, she discovers an even darker plot unfolding on the ship: one that will result in the complete genocide of another alien species. And she's the only one who can stop it. Warning: Some scenes may be disturbing. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Beverly Crusher swept into the captain's quarters without pausing to ring the chime. The doors whooshed closed behind her, their smoothness a stark contrast to her frenetic movements. She strode several feet into the cabin, unconsciously heading toward the empty dining table, before coming to an abrupt stop in the center of the room. Her hands twitched as her gaze darted from the empty desk to the seating area, to the access to the bedroom, to the dining area, and back.

"Damn," she muttered before turning on her heel and heading back into the corridor. She headed for the turbolift. "Bridge," she said as the doors closed behind her.

Beverly tapped her fingers against her thigh as the lift propelled her to the summit of the ship. The familiar hum of the command center of the _Enterprise_ greeted her as she stepped onto the bridge. Under normal circumstances the sight of her fellow crewmembers going about their duties would have had a calming effect on her, but this situation was anything but routine.

Her long legs carried her down the side of the horseshoe toward the viewscreen. She paused long enough to make eye contact with the ship's counselor who watched her progress with unfeigned interest. Will Riker arched an eyebrow from where he lounged in the captain's chair. Beverly gave her head a tiny shake before she spun on her heel and approached the ready room.

Unlike a few moments earlier at his quarters, Beverly paused at the door and waited—impatiently—for the occupant to grant her entrance.

"Enter."

The disembodied voice startled her and set her teeth on edge.

_This isn't right_, she thought as she triggered the door's sensors and crossed the threshold.

The captain of the _Enterprise_ looked up from his computer screen and regarded her coolly. "Doctor Crusher," he said, seemingly tasting each syllable—and finding them somewhat unpalatable—before uttering them. "What can I do for you?"

Beverly stared at the man seated behind the gleaming desk and fought the urge to turn and flee. Half-formed memories of perching on the corner of the desk flickered along her periphery and she frowned. She would never willingly bring herself into such close proximity with the captain, would she? An invisible force pressed against her, erasing the images and nearly driving her back through the doors. She was not welcome here.

"Sir," she said. "I'm here to relieve you of command."

He laughed and fear slid down her spine like viscous oil. "You will do no such thing."

The buzzing of a thousand hornets filled the room and she reached for the glass case holding a centuries-old copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare to steady herself – only her hand met empty air and she stumbled.

The captain stood. "Doctor, you will return to your duties immediately."

She shook her head in an effort to clear the confusion. _Where had the notion of an ancient print book come from?_ She glanced at the table next to the sofa. Its surface matched the desk and held only a single potted succulent. Beverly's stomach recoiled in horror as she tentatively reached a hand out to touch the grey-green flesh.

_Do. Not. Touch_.

The command echoed throughout her body as though written in her DNA.

"Doctor, return to your duties at once!"

The pressure increased and her feet propelled her backward and out the doors before she could formulate a reply. She turned and fled back up the ramp to the turbolift, intent on returning to sickbay and attending to her duties.


	2. Chapter 2

Deanna Troi paused at the entrance to the CMO's office and studied the woman she had once considered her best friend. The doctor leaned heavily on her elbows as she massaged her temples and Deanna silently clucked in disapproval.

"You have a hypospray for that, you know," she said.

Beverly's head snapped up. Surprise temporarily erased the exhaustion in her blue eyes, but as soon as she recognized the counselor, the brightness faded.

"Deanna," Beverly said, keeping her tone neutral, "what brings you here?"

"I came to see how you were doing."

"The captain sent you."

Deanna remained silent. There was no point in trying to lie about the obvious.

"He is concerned about you." Deanna paused. "We're all concerned about you."

Beverly laughed and bitterness rolled through her office, buffeting Deanna's empathic walls. Deanna braced herself for another onslaught of emotion as she stepped further into the room. She couldn't remember what had caused the rift in their friendship, but whatever it was, it was irrelevant now. The captain had ordered her to gauge Dr. Crusher's psychological fitness, and she would do her duty. He would expect—and accept—no less.

"Beverly—"

"Don't, Deanna. Just don't," Beverly said. "I'm fine. Tired." She leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her auburn hair. "I stayed up too late working on a project and now I'm paying for the lack of sleep."

Deanna almost believed her.

"What sort of project, Beverly?"

Beverly's already alabaster complexion paled and the sharp tang of stress pierced the room. Deanna adjusted her senses to compensate.

The doctor smiled weakly. "You've never shown interest in my work before."

"You've never been obsessed with a side project to the detriment of your ability to perform your duties before."

Beverly's cheeks flushed. "My ability to serve as the CMO of this vessel is in no way compromised."

"Really?" Deanna counted slowly to thirty before adding, "You tried to relieve the captain of duty earlier today."

"I did?"

Deanna nodded. "This morning, and yesterday, and the morning before that. In fact, you've attempted to do so every morning for the past ten days."

Beverly's eyebrows drew together. She would never do such a thing. The captain was in perfect control of his faculties and showed no sign of incapacitation. "I don't—"

An echo of the closeness she'd once shared with the doctor slipped past her defences, and Deanna sighed. "Beverly, please stop. Whatever you're doing isn't rational, and the captain's patience has its limits."

Beverly appeared genuinely confused, and the fuzziness pricked at Deanna's skin like an electromagnetic current.

"That's just it though," Beverly said. "I don't know what you're talking about. Why would I want to relieve the captain of duty?" 


	3. Chapter 3

Beverly tossed her lab coat onto a nearby dining chair as she drifted toward the sofa under the viewport. She'd finished her duty shift and handed sickbay over to Dr. Selar. No one had uttered so much as a peep about her apparently aberrant behaviour, but she knew she held onto her position by a tenuous thread.

She flopped onto the couch, too exhausted to bother with replicating a meal. Beverly pulled her feet onto the cushions and watched the stars streaking past at warp speed without seeing them. She idly stroked the petals of one of the almost dozen orchids thriving along the window ledge.

_Why would I try to remove the captain from duty?_ she wondered for the millionth time. _And, more importantly, why don't I remember doing it?_

Beverly sighed and closed her eyes.

Her conversation with Deanna made almost as much sense as the Federation's war with the Parnellians. Beverly's stomach clenched at the thought of the seemingly peaceful race of beings. _How could a species with primitive warp capabilities and weapons more than a century behind Starfleet's pose such a threat to the quadrant?_

Beverly shook her head. She was obviously missing something. The Parnellians were primarily an agrarian society, more concerned with farming and livestock than galactic conquest – at least in her opinion. The United Federation of Planets disagreed, however, and now the _Enterprise_ was scouring space, exterminating each and every Parnellian ship they encountered.

_This isn't right_, she thought.

Her fingers froze in their path along the edge of the flower. She remembered thinking those same words before reporting for duty earlier in the day. She frowned. If only she could recall what she'd been doing then – and why.

She chased the fleeting memory, but it escaped her grasp like a wave rushing out to sea. Her hand found the pruning shears and she began to trim the plants out of habit. Beverly let her mind wander as she snipped wilted petals and old stalks from the new growth.

"Damn," she said as a perfect blossom fell.

Beverly set the pruners down and picked up the flower. She cupped the blossom in her hands and studied the pearlescent petals threaded and bordered with a rich burgundy. Her heart skipped a beat. Something about the colour tugged at the corners of her mind.

She brought the flower to her face and inhaled deeply. The rich scent filled her sinuses and almost sent her reeling with its intensity. She took another breath and let the aroma fill her until she imagined it seeping out through her pores.

She studied the petals again, and almost dropped them when the image of a man—hazel eyes twinkling with amusement and intelligence—surfaced from the dark recesses of her memories.

_Jean-Luc_.

Beverly's hands trembled as a crushing sadness radiated out from her chest. She didn't remember who he was in her life, but she could still feel their connection – and the agony of her loss.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered. "Jean-Luc."

She repeated it like a mantra, afraid she would lose it like so many other memories she seemed to be missing.

"Jean-Luc."

She absently tucked the orchid behind her ear, its earthy aroma intensifying against her warm skin, and walked over to her desk. She slid into the seat and activated her computer terminal.

"Computer, search the _Enterprise_ patient database for all entries matching 'Jean-Luc.'"

The computer whirred softly.

"Search complete. There is one entry matching the search term 'Jean-Luc.'"

"Display the file, please."

Beverly's screen shifted from the UFP logo to a standard Starfleet medical record and her heart threatened to crawl into her throat when the photo of the man on the screen matched the hazy memory of laughing hazel eyes.

"Picard, Jean-Luc," she read aloud. "Captain, _USS Enterprise_."

_No_, she thought. _This isn't right_.

The orchid's perfume mingled with images of staff meetings, shared breakfasts—_just how close was she to this man, anyway?_—diplomatic dinners, and away missions. Beverly grasped the edge of her desk as the onslaught of memories made the room tilt on its axis.

She continued to read his file, and each line, each fact brought another snippet of a life she had no idea she'd lived to the surface. She knew him, she _knew_ this man as more than just a patient.

Her throat tightened and her lungs refused to inhale as pain as sharp as a scalpel sliced under her ribs. She blinked, but the last line in the file didn't change:

_Missing, presumed dead_.


	4. Chapter 4

Beverly prowled her quarters in an effort to keep pace with her chaotic thoughts. Her certainty that she'd been serving with their current captain for years—since the start of the Parnellian conflict—remained absolute. Yet, her memories of this Jean-Luc Picard seemed to contradict everything she knew to be true. His medical file listed him as missing a little less than two weeks earlier – an entry she'd apparently made herself, yet she couldn't recall doing so.

Her brain hurt from trying to reconcile the two different realities, and she wondered if Deanna and the captain weren't correct in their concerns. If she was imagining an entire life with a missing crewmember, maybe she wasn't psychologically fit for duty.

She kept coming back to the stardate in the medical record. _How could Jean-Luc be the captain as recently as two weeks ago when our current captain has been in his position for years?_ It made no sense, and the irreconcilability of the two situations was giving her a headache.

Beverly returned to her computer and wondered if she would be able to tell if the records had somehow been tampered with. She possessed a basic understanding of the computer's encryption programming but, beyond setting her own levels of confidentiality within a file, she didn't know where to begin a search for signs of tampering.

She reached for an isolinear chip as a new idea took root. Beverly may not know how to detect tampering, but she knew someone who did.

"Computer, location of Lieutenant Commander Data," she said as she copied Jean-Luc's file onto the chip.

The computer beeped, signalling a negative response. "No matching crewmembers found. There is no Lt. Commander Data aboard the _Enterprise_."

"What?"

The computer beeped again. "There is no Lt. Commander Data aboard the _Enterprise_."

Beverly stifled a growl and muttered, "That was an expression of disbelief, not a request to repeat yourself, you tribble-infested bag of circuits."

Beverly's stomach flip-flopped. Now she was imagining an android manning the Ops station and serving as the ship's second officer?

She stared at the isolinear chip in her hands for what seemed like an eternity before tossing it onto her desk. Beverly sighed and slouched in her chair. She ran her fingers through the hair above her temples and started as the forgotten orchid slid from behind her ear and landed in her lap.

A peculiar sense of sadness washed through Beverly as she noticed several signs of wilting. The burgundy seemed less intense against the slightly yellowed whiteness, and the stem had softened, losing its rigidity. She wondered if putting the blossom in a glass of water would perk it up, but decided against making the attempt. The flower was too far gone.

She checked the chronometer and decided to turn in. The puzzle of the missing crewmembers tickled the back of her mind, but the captain expected her to be in top condition to perform her duties in the morning.

She needed sleep.

Beverly walked over to the recycler and tossed the orchid blossom in before padding into her bedroom. Her eyes drooped as she completed her toilette and slid into bed. She settled into the silky sheets and the mystery of Jean-Luc Picard faded to nothing more than a fuzzy dream.


	5. Chapter 5

The red alert klaxon blared throughout sickbay. The standard bustle of the medical crew shifted from sorting equipment and running diagnostics, to preparing surgical beds and trauma units. Their movements remained calm and sure, a testament to their training – and the professionalism of their CMO.

"Sickbay, report to cargo bay three." Riker's voice boomed over the speakers.

"Cargo bay three, right away, sir," Beverly replied. She gestured at two nurses and an intern to follow her. She grabbed a level one medical kit on her way past the supply table, confident the rest of her team would bring their assigned equipment.

The stench of a plasma fire recently suppressed assaulted her as soon as the seals on the cargo bay doors broke and the great slabs of metal rolled apart. Beverly expected to enter a smoke-filled nightmare, but the air filters had already removed most of the particulates.

"This way, doctor!" a young engineer shouted and waved. "He's over here!"

Beverly quickened her stride and followed the petite brunette through a maze of stacked containers—reserve ammunitions—until they reached the accident site. The reek of charred flesh and molten metal made her gorge rise. Beverly fell back on her training—using her scene assessment protocol—to set aside her own discomfort. Her patients needed one hundred percent of her skills.

"Is he going to be okay?" the engineer asked. "The blast was so strong, and he flew so far, and there was so much smoke, and the plasma fire—"

Beverly knelt at Geordi's side. His skin was more grey than brown, and his chest showed no signs of rising or falling. Beverly placed two fingers against his carotid, feeling for a pulse. A thready flutter signalled the chief engineer still lived.

"Get him stabilized," Beverly ordered the intern. She turned to the two nurses. "Set up the anti-grav gurney. I don't want to risk the transporter damaging the burned flesh further by integrating the melted uniform molecules into his cellular structure."

"Yes, sir," the three replied in unison.

Beverly ran her tricorder over the ruin of Geordi's chest. The explosion must have caught him square on. The fire-retardant uniform stood no chance against a plasma fire.

"Is he going to be okay?" the junior engineer asked again. "He didn't move—"

"He's going to be fine," Beverly said.

"But look at his chest," the girl practically choked. "He's—"

"He's going to be _fine_," Beverly repeated as she ran a deeper series of scans. He'd require extensive cellular reconstruction to remove the fragments of uniform and debris melded into his epidermis, and treatment for his burns and contusions, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. Geordi was fortunate – a lot of victims of plasma fires suffered 'cooking' of one or more internal organs, which sometimes made recovery questionable.

"But—"

"Doctor, the gurney is ready whenever you are," said Nurse Ogawa, interrupting the distraught engineer.

Beverly glanced from her tricorder to the intern. "Is he stable?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, let's get him to sickbay and into surgery."

"How did the Parnellians pull this off?" the engineer asked. "We've never seen an attack like this before."

Beverly mentally shrugged. She kept her eyes on her patient as he was lifted onto the anti-grav unit, and said, "How do you know it wasn't an accident? Cracks form in plasma conduits over time, and if the fissures reach a critical depth, explosions can occur."

_I should know; Jack learned that the hard way_, she thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Beverly froze.

_Jack?_

A sense of loss-nearly-healed descended on her and images of a flag-draped casket, flowers, dress uniforms, and a stoic young child flickered through her mind. The memories felt deep, old, and Beverly wondered if they were connected somehow to the missing man, Jean-Luc Picard.

Beverly's pulse skittered. She'd completely forgotten about the missing captain-who-wasn't-the-captain.

Beverly's communicator chirped. "Dr. Crusher, report," came the captain's disembodied voice.

She tapped her badge and said, "Commander LaForge was caught in a plasma conduit explosion and has suffered significant burns and molecular fusion. He will require surgery, but should recover." She paused and added a belated, "Sir."

"I expect your full report on my desk as soon as he is out of the OR."

"Yes, sir."

"We won't let those Parnellian bastards get away with this. We'll—"

Beverly 'accidentally' bumped her communicator, cutting the conversation. She had more important things to do than listen to the captain's anti-Parnellian propaganda.

Geordi groaned and turned his head toward her as she approached his side. Beverly frowned. Her intern should have adequately sedated him once he'd assured himself the patient was stable. There was no reason to make Geordi suffer. She lifted her gaze to the intern, lips already forming the command to initiate pain control procedures, but Geordi's unexpected grasp of her forearm startled her.

"Doc?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from smoke inhalation. "I remember..."

The hairs on the back of Beverly's neck rose as she leaned closer. "Don't try to speak. You can tell me what you recall of the accident after we've fixed you up."

Geordi shook his head. "No, I remember _him_."

She prayed he would say, "Jean-Luc, or Captain Picard," something to prove she wasn't going insane in recalling a man who by all rights shouldn't exist.

"Data."

The moment Geordi uttered the name, Beverly flashed back to long nights playing poker with the senior staff. Data always wore that bizarre green visor—something he'd picked up while researching the origins of the ancient Earth game—and never raised on a pair of twos. She'd yet to figure out his 'tell', but given he was an android and could program his face to remain neutral at all times, that wasn't surprising.

Unlike Deanna, who always scratched her right ear when she had a winning hand. For an empath, she was remarkably poor at hiding her own emotions; especially when discussing ship's gossip over a chocolate sundae, Beverly mused.

She stopped the memory in its tracks. _Deanna and I are friends?_

The hiss of a hypospray brought Beverly back to the present. She wanted to ask Geordi what he recalled, but his limp form and the injector in the intern's hand indicated he wouldn't be speaking again until after surgery.

She gave the order to move out and followed the gurney into the corridor. Beverly tried to bring more memories of Data—and Jean-Luc—forward, but the further they moved from the accident site, the fuzzier her past became. By the time the team entered the turbolift, she'd forgotten Geordi had ever mentioned the android.


	7. Chapter 7

William Riker barged into sickbay, intent on finding the errant CMO. According to the computer, LaForge's surgery had ended more than an hour previously and the captain had still not received a report. The task of making sure Dr. Crusher was fulfilling her duties now rested on him, and he was unimpressed.

Everyone should want to do their duty to the best of their ability – or step aside and be replaced. The Parnellian conflict would not allow Starfleet to tolerate mediocrity in senior positions.

Riker paused in the central area when he spotted Dr. Selar. The Vulcan would likely make an excellent CMO. Her performance reviews were always favourable, and with her Vulcan logic and attention to detail, she'd be a very thorough CMO. Riker made a mental note to run the idea past the captain then headed for Dr. Crusher's office.

He didn't bother to knock or otherwise announce himself, simply striding in and taking the seat across from her. Crusher's eyes scanned the computer monitor, and her fingers flew across the keyboard. If she knew he was there, she gave no sign.

"Dr. Crusher," Riker began, "the captain is expecting a report on LaForge's operation. It has been more than an hour since—"

Beverly stopped typing. "Commander, I am acutely aware of the time."

"Where is the report?"

"I'm working on it."

"It should be complete by now. A superior CMO would have written and submitted the required documents to the captain in a more timely manner."

Beverly sighed and leaned back in her chair. For the first time since entering her office, Riker noticed her appearance. Dark half-moons rested under her eyes, and there was a tightness at the corners of her mouth suggesting exhaustion.

"Commander," Crusher said, "had this been a routine surgery, I am certain I would have completed the report more quickly. However, Commander LaForge's operation required more than twelve hours of cellular reconstruction before we could even begin the task of regenerating the tissues damaged by the blast. In total, my team and I were in the OR for more than fifteen hours."

"The captain expects—"

"I know what the captain expects," she replied, "and I'm doing my best to meet those expectations. You have to understand, I've been on duty for more than thirty hours now with no breaks, and—"

Riker smiled as a flash of understanding hit him. "So it is fatigue, and not incompetence that is delaying the completion of the report."

He stood and moved to the replicator. After giving a simple order, he returned to Crusher's desk with a steaming cup of coffee. "Here, perhaps the stimulant will aid you."

Crusher took the mug from him and brought it to her nose. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. "Thanks, Will. I needed this."

Riker frowned. "Your familiarity while on duty is inappropriate." The rich scent of freshly roasted beans wafted toward him and he wished he'd thought to order a cup for himself.

Some of the tiredness left Crusher's eyes and she smirked. "This coming from the man who once serenaded the captain _on the bridge_ with his trombone?"

"I did no—" He stopped himself as the memory of standing at the edge of the horseshoe, one foot on the railing, and belting out the tune to 'Happy Birthday' on a brass instrument surfaced from the depths of his mind. He grinned. "I thought the captain was going to make me clean out the warp nacelles for a week for that stunt."

His smile faded.

Beverly set the mug down between them, letting the aroma fill the office.

"Will, something's not right."

Riker frowned as he tried to bring the memory into clearer focus. "Who…?"

"The man I think you're recalling," Beverly said as she rubbed her face, "is Captain Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the _Enterprise_."


	8. Chapter 8

Beverly watched as Will's expression flickered from confusion, to disbelief, to understanding, and back to confusion.

He leaned forward. "This makes no sense. The captain has been in command for years. We both joined the crew at _Farpoint_ for the maiden mission to force back the Parnellian invasion. There's never been another captain."

Beverly shook her head. "Not according to the ship's computer."

"There must be some mistake. A glitch in the data; maybe this Picard is the captain of some other vessel and—"

"Come on, Will, admit it. You remember him!"

"Parnellian cyber-terrorism?" Will said, doubt clear in his voice.

Beverly snorted. "The Parnellians are about as capable of hacking Starfleet's computers as prehistoric Neanderthals. They're not a threat."

"Why are we hunting them down then?"

"I don't know, Will, but something isn't right."

Riker leaned back in his chair and scratched his beard. "All right. Let's go under the assumption you're right, and Picard is—or was—the captain. Where is he now?"

"The medical log lists him as going missing on stardate 45113.2. He was declared 'presumed dead' less than twelve hours later."

Will grunted. Twelve hours was far too early to write off an officer. Standard protocol would require at least seventy-two hours of searching—or attempted retrieval—followed by leaving the case open until further evidence confirmed the officer's death. Without a body—and a subsequent autopsy—Picard's file should still be open.

"Who declared him deceased?" Will asked.

"I did." Beverly paused. "On the captain's orders."

Beverly frowned.

"What?" Will asked.

"It's just," she said, trying to find the right words, "you're right. He ordered me to declare him deceased."

"And?"

"I put him down as _presumed_ dead, not deceased."

"You think he's still alive?"

"Why would I disobey a direct order?" she said. "You know the captain as well as I do; there's no way he would tolerate anything other than strict obedience."

"How come you still have your position?"

"I don't know. Maybe he never bothered to check my entry?"

Will seemed to consider this. "Well, he'd have no reason to assume you wouldn't obey…"

"And I wouldn't have a reason, unless…"

"Unless Picard is still alive."

A chill ran down her spine and she shivered. She picked up the coffee and took a sip. The robust scent brought back memories of innumerable breakfasts shared with a man she barely remembered, but whose presence was imprinted on her soul.

"Not only am I positive he's alive, but I think I may be the only person on this ship—other than the captain—who knows where he is."


	9. Chapter 9

Beverly entered the observation lounge and gravitated toward the first chair on the left side of the long table. She placed a hand on the headrest and blinked.

_Why am I thinking of sitting here?_ she wondered. She would never choose to sit next to the captain. In fact, she arrived to the meetings early in order to take the seat furthest from the captain's preferred seat at the head of the table.

She let go of the chair and moved to the other end of the room, feeling slightly off. Something about that seat felt _right_ to her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She slipped into her customary spot and waited for the rest of the senior crew to arrive.

The whoosh of the doors startled her, and she realized she'd been dozing. _I guess three hours of sleep isn't sufficient to recover from thirty-two hours of duty. I wish I'd had one of Aunt Adele's hot toddies..._

"Dr. Crusher," Riker said as he took his seat next to the head of the table.

"Commander Riker."

"Your report explaining LaForge's surgery was competently written."

"Thank you, sir."

Deanna entered the room, followed by the captain. She sat next to Riker and smiled at Beverly – a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Deanna studied Beverly for a few seconds longer, then spoke. "We didn't see you on the bridge this morning."

Beverly wiped her suddenly damp palms on her pants as she darted a glance at the faces around the table. "Was I supposed to be there? I apologize if I missed a briefing. The surgery..."

The captain waved his hand. "No, your presence was not required."

Beverly stiffened. She heard the unspoken, _nor is it welcome_.

She refused to meet his chill gaze, and instead focused on the planter decorating the center of the table. A wild assortment of plants resided in the unremarkable black container. She thought she could make out a faint ribbed pattern on the ceramic material, but the dim lighting in the observation lounge made her uncertain.

She studied the plants themselves as the captain launched into another of his anti-Parnellian soliloquies. Beverly admired the graceful lines of the reddish green grasses. They complemented the more squat, and brighter, succulents surrounding a taller, greyish-green plant.

Beverly frowned. The plant in the center looked familiar.

"Dr. Crusher?" the captain said, interrupting her reverie.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you have an issue with the plan?"

"The plan?" she wracked her brain for any hint of what he'd been discussing, but it didn't matter, she knew the correct response. "No, sir. Your plans are always well-conceived and will guarantee us success against the Parnellians."

The captain stared at her without blinking. She held motionless, as if even breathing would somehow be a show of weakness, and waited for him to reply.

Beverly's lungs burned when the captain finally looked away and addressed a question about photon torpedo spreads at Worf. Her shoulders dropped, and the relief surprised her. She hadn't realized she was so tense.

The meeting continued as usual, but Beverly's attention kept wandering back to the ornamental basket adorning the table. After several minutes of staring at the tallest succulent—trying to classify it by its features and failing—Beverly started to feel like the plant was studying her in return. She swore she could almost feel animosity toward her visual examination rolling off the plant in waves. She wondered how it would react if she attempted to touch it.

_Do. Not. Touch._

The command echoed inside her skull and she winced at the intensity.

"Doctor," said the captain, drawing her attention back to the crew, "I am finding your inappropriate reactions to my briefing notes to be highly disrespectful. Please tell me what you find so offensive about adjusting our patrol route to speed up our apprehension of the final thirty Parnellian battleships."

"Sir, I," Beverly began, but quickly changed her tactic. Apologizing would not go well. "I am experiencing some discomfort in the first two fingers of my right hand."

"Explain."

"I suspect the injury occurred at some point during LaForge's surgery, sir. I will treat it as soon as we are dismissed to our duties."

The captain's eyes grew colder. "Your presence is a distraction in your current state, and I suspect you have nothing useful to contribute at this point. You are dismissed."

"Sir?"

"Dr. Crusher, you will report to sickbay and remain there for the duration of your shift, or I will have Lt. Worf escort you to the brig."

Beverly stood, heat colouring her cheeks. "Yes, sir."

"I will conduct an inspection of your medical facility at the conclusion of this meeting. See that it is up to standard."

Beverly shivered. She didn't know why, but every cell in her body warned her she did _not_ want the captain anywhere near her sickbay. She swallowed.

"Doctor?" the captain continued. "Do you require an escort?"

Beverly shook her head, humiliation and fear rendering her temporarily mute.

"Then leave. Immediately."

Beverly fled.


	10. Chapter 10

Beverly stumbled along a corridor filled with vines. Roots grabbed at her boots and threatened to send her sprawling. She tried to avoid the sticky strings clinging to the walls and descending from the ceiling, but they were too numerous. The tiny suckers coating each vine clamped onto her uniform and bare flesh with ease. Each time she pulled one off—leaving a red welt where the suction cups had attached—another found her.

Laughter echoed along the corridor behind her, gaining. Her heart pounded in her ears; the moment that voice caught her she was doomed. Beverly quickened her stride, but the jungle made rapid movement nearly impossible.

A particularly thick vine descended and wrapped around her wrist. She pulled as she moved a few steps further but the plant remained firmly attached. All her instincts urged her to keep moving, to run, but she had to stop to free herself. She grabbed the rope-like tendril with both hands, heedless of the welts it would leave behind, and yanked.

The ceiling of the corridor groaned.

She pulled again.

The vine gave way, bringing a thick pile of debris with it. Beverly ripped the plant from her hands and wrist in disgust. Panic filled her as the maniacal laughter sounded again, closer. Much closer.

She turned to flee and tripped over a large chunk of debris. Cursing, she picked herself up and prepared to launch a terror-filled kick at the object. The sucking vines clung to it, obscuring details, but she could discern its roughly spherical shape. The tanned surface gleamed almost like gold in contrast to the grey-green plants smothering it.

Beverly drew her foot back and took aim. Without warning, the vines slid apart when her foot moved to within an inch of the object.

Beverly screamed and tried to alter her aim, but it was too late. Her boot smacked into the object and sent it careening down the corridor. It made a wet, slapping sound as it bounced. The laughter came from right behind her.

Beverly's heart lurched painfully in her chest.

She stared at the object at the end of the hallway. Its hazel eyes didn't blink as it stared back at her.

_Jean-Luc_.

Rough hands grabbed her from behind—


	11. Chapter 11

Beverly bolted upright in bed, heart pounding and sweat drenching her nightgown. Terror clung to her like the vines from her nightmare. She counted to thirty in an effort to slow her pulse, but the image of the head—its lifeless eyes gazing back at her—refused to leave her mind.

She slipped out from under the covers and padded to the replicator. Her hands shook as she brought the ice water to her lips. The liquid slid down her throat, easing some of her feverish discomfort.

Beverly tossed back the last of the water and headed for the cabinet under her wall shelves. She was going to need something stronger if she was going to get back to sleep. Beverly pulled a bottle from the cupboard and opened it. The sharp fumes of genuine alcohol tickled her nose and she fought the need to sneeze.

She poured a stiff measure over the remaining ice in her glass, returned the bottle to its place, and headed for her customary spot on the couch. She closed her eyes and let the warmth of the whiskey infuse her. She sighed as it chased away the worst of the terror.

Beverly wondered what it was about the captain's inspection of sickbay that always led to a night of terrifying dreams. Most nights, she dreamed of performing her duties to the standards set by the captain, and feeling proud of his approval. These dreams were her refuge from the reality of her relationship with the _Enterprise's_ commanding officer.

Yet, every time she actually lived up to expectations—he had yet to find fault with her sickbay or her staff during his inspections—she spent the night fleeing from twisted dreams involving sucking plants and hacked up bodies.

The ice tinkled softly against the edge of the glass as Beverly gently swirled the amber liquid. She inhaled deeply, holding the aroma in her sinuses until the sting of the fumes faded to a comforting warmth.

Images from the inspection began to filter into her consciousness. She recalled the captain's arrival in sickbay, and her increasing anxiety as she led him around the facility. After touring the last operating room, she wanted nothing more than to head back to the central medical area, but the captain merely shook his head and smiled coldly.

Fear crept up her spine as she turned to face the utility room at the other end of the corridor. The captain gestured for her to precede him. She dug her nails into her palms as she walked—each step heavier than the last—toward the door she'd rather die than open.

Beverly opened her eyes and frowned. _There's no room at the end of that corridor_. She took another sip of her drink as she tried to separate her nightmare from reality. Try as she might, every recollection of the captain's inspection included a room at the end of the hallway – a room she was positive didn't exist.

She rested the glass against her bottom lip as she considered the situation. The aftermath of the nightmare left her mind curiously clear and she recalled her earlier investigations into the missing man, Picard, and her conversation about the captain-who-wasn't-their-captain with Riker. She even recalled Deanna telling her she'd tried to remove the captain from duty.

She tilted her head as a new thought occurred to her: if she could completely blank out people and events, maybe it was possible she'd forgotten about the room beyond the OR. Beverly's scalp tingled as a new idea took form. Maybe she wasn't forgetting things, maybe something—or someone—was preventing her from remembering.

_There's only one way to prove the theory_, she mused grimly as she tossed back the last of the whiskey. _I have to find that utility room_ - _and find a way to remember doing it._


	12. Chapter 12

The turbolift doors opened but Beverly didn't move. She didn't know why she was on this deck. The captain would expect her to be in sickbay. She should be where she was expected. She took a breath, ready to order the lift to take her back to where she belonged, but the clatter of a PADD hitting the deck stopped her.

She glanced down, surprised to find the device resting against her boot. She frowned as she bent to pick it up. She didn't remember carrying a PADD when she entered the lift, but she was alone, so it was obviously hers.

Beverly tapped the screen and blinked as the handheld computer sprang to life. Her lips parted in surprise when she read the already open file.

_**To**__: Crusher, B. CMO USS Enterprise_

_**From**__: Crusher, B. CMO USS Enterprise_

_Go to the arboretum and pick up a large sample of Xenus-Marconi Fungi. Once in hand, pull the file Crusher-Alpha-0-2-Beta-4309. The captain will grant you access._

She stared at the screen, puzzlement written across her features. She had no recollection of composing the message, nor did she have any idea why she would need a sample of the most foul-smelling plant ever to be preserved on board the ship. But, she reasoned, if the captain approved of the exercise she should follow through to the best of her ability.

Beverly stepped out of the turbolift and headed for the arboretum. The doors whooshed open and the scent of warm soil drifted into the corridor. The moist air tickled her cheeks as she entered the manicured garden area. She paused again, unsure why she was there.

_I should be in sickbay_, she thought. The compulsion to turn around and return to her duties was strong. She took a step backward.

"Doctor Crusher?" Keiko O'Brien said as she rounded the corner of a nearby path. "I haven't seen you in ages. What brings you here?"

"I, uh," Beverly struggled to find the words. She didn't know why she was in the arboretum when every cell in her body screamed at her to get to sickbay.

Keiko glanced pointedly at the PADD in Beverly's hand. "Is there something I can help you find?"

"What?" Beverly followed Keiko's gaze. "Oh, right." She thumbed the device and read the order – her order. "I need some fungus."

Keiko smiled. "Well, doctor, we have several hundred species to choose from. Would you care to be a little more specific?"

She re-read the document, still unsure she should be in the gardens at all. "Xenus-Marconi?"

Keiko wrinkled her nose. "Why ever would you want that one? It has to be the ripest, nastiest mushroom ever. I swear the stench is enough to make a Klingon cry."

Beverly didn't know what to say. All she had was the PADD and a vague assurance the captain approved of whatever she was supposed to do with the sample after.

Keiko shrugged, seemingly unfazed by Beverly's awkward silence. "All right, doctor, if that's what you need, let's get you some. Follow me."

Beverly trailed after Keiko as the petite botanist led them along the path to the dark room housing most of the fungi. They stepped through the door into another world. A pungent loamy odour filled the room, accented by various perfumes released by mushrooms and lichen and other dark-loving plants.

Some of Beverly's concern slipped away. She recalled typing the message on her PADD—she didn't remember receiving word from the captain, but she was sure that memory would surface in time—and she remembered how important she'd felt it was to acquire a sample of the Xenus-Marconi.

"Over here," Keiko said, pointing to a sealed box. "I don't want to keep the chamber open for longer than necessary. How small a sample do you want?"

Beverly knew the answer without looking at the PADD, and the knowledge made her proud. She was serving the captain in accordance with his wishes. Surely he would be pleased with her actions.

"I need a large piece, please."

Keiko's eyebrows shot up. "Large? How large?"

Beverly held her hands roughly eight inches apart.

Keiko clutched the lid of the box so tightly her knuckles turned white. "And what do you plan on putting it in for transport?"

"I don't—" Beverly cut herself off, remembering. "I'm going to carry it."

"In the open?"

Beverly nodded and leaned closer as Keiko muttered under her breath. She thought the woman said something about confined spaces and death wishes, but she wasn't sure.

Keiko sighed and opened the container. She screwed her eyes shut and held her breath as she reached in and pulled out a hunk of softly glowing material. The fungus resembled green florist's foam, but that's where the resemblance stopped. Instead of tiny bubbles of air, the Xenus-Marconi consisted of millions of liquid-filled cells. The thick sap stuck to Keiko's hand as she passed the sample to Beverly and closed the lid.

"Oh, god, we need to get that door open," Keiko said, darting past Beverly.

Beverly's eyes watered as the scent of the Xenus-Marconi filled the small room. She carried the fungus in one hand and the PADD in the other. As soon as she exited the dark room Keiko made excuses to be elsewhere, but Beverly didn't mind.

She wanted to be alone for the next step anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

Beverly held the fungus close to her chest, letting the stench wash over her, as she accessed the file listed in the memo. She paused when the security screen appeared, requesting a password.

She sniffed and cleared her throat. The Xenus-Marconi was a truly unpleasant specimen, but it was doing its job. With every inhalation, Beverly's memories returned. She used her thumb to enter the only password that made sense given the clue in the original message.

_Jean-Luc __Picard_.

The captain.

The file opened with a soft beep. She scanned the contents of the new message and her pulse quickened in response. She didn't want to follow the corridor past the ORs. She didn't want to open the door she couldn't remember.

The memo, and the details contained within, didn't leave her with a choice. She had to learn what had happened to Jean-Luc, and she believed the answer lay somewhere inside a utility closet she only saw in her nightmares.

Beverly closed and locked the file and opened a new, audio, entry. "Chief Medical Officer's Personal Log, Stardate 45120.1. My suspicions surrounding the nature of the apparent case of ship-wide amnesia seem to be confirmed."

She closed her eyes and breathed in the stench of the Xenus-Marconi before continuing.

"The phenomenon is directly connected with the sense of smell. I suspect an odorless chemical is being broadcast throughout the ship, and the result is an increased susceptibility to suggestion, and an inability—or lack of desire—to recall facts or events which contradict the apparent reality of our current situation.

"I will make detecting, and counteracting, the agent my priority once I have recorded the location and condition of the captain. The real captain," she added.

Beverly sealed the log, using the password she'd suggested to herself in the previous memo, and tucked the PADD under her arm before stepping onto the path that would take her back to the entrance to the arboretum.

She moved along the crushed gravel path with purpose, and only half-acknowledged Keiko's wave—from the furthest corner of the room still visible to the door—as she strode into the turbolift. She kept the Xenus-Marconi pressed to her chest, its scent her only protection against whatever held the crew in thrall.

"Sickbay," she said as the doors of the turbolift closed. She wondered if the Parnellians were behind the attack. Somehow she doubted it. So far the _Enterprise_ had come through every battle without a scratch, let alone a casualty. The race of farmers had to be connected to the mystery in some way, but she highly doubted they were behind the amnesia epidemic.

Beverly moved along the empty corridor—everyone was dutifully at his or her station—and entered the main area of sickbay. Dr. Selar turned at the sound of the doors opening and closing, but other than an arched eyebrow at the glowing fungus dripping foul-scented sludge onto her chest, she didn't react to Beverly's late arrival.

Beverly nodded at her second-in-command and moved toward her office. She was torn between searching for a cure in order to free the entire crew, or looking for the captain. Her greatest duty lay with saving the ship, but—she reasoned—if she failed, or her actions were detected, whoever was behind the attack might see to it no one ever found the captain.

She glanced at the Xenus-Marconi, slightly disappointed. Beverly had hoped the strongest smell she could think of would be sufficient to return all her memories—including the events immediately prior to the disappearance of Jean-Luc—but while she could think clearly, the specifics of shipboard life over the past few weeks remained hidden.

Beverly's gaze wandered across her office. A slender worm of guilt crawled up her spine; she was wasting time, avoiding making the walk past the OR suites, and she knew it. A grey-green succulent perched on the cabinet behind her desk. She frowned. Something about the plant seemed both familiar and out of place.

"Damn it," she whispered. "Get a hold of yourself." Trying to identify an unfamiliar species of cactus was not going to get her through the utility door, and was certainly not going to help her find Jean-Luc.

Beverly turned and left her office. The fungus squished wetly in her hand and she shuddered. She was going to reek of "eau d'outhouse" for weeks after this.

She rounded the corner and entered the corridor housing the six surgical suites. She kept her gaze firmly on her boots as she took one step after another toward the end of the hall. With each pace, her heartbeat accelerated and her breathing became more shallow. She had to stop herself more than once, and practice a deep breathing exercise. Her memory regarding her purpose in the hallway grew fuzzy when she breathed shallowly, and the last thing she needed was to forget why she was here.

At last her steps brought her to the end of the corridor. Beverly looked up, hoping to see a blank wall, and was surprised to see the door she only ever saw in nightmares. She almost dropped the PADD and Xenus-Marconi in her shock. _It's real_.

She triggered the locking mechanism and held her breath as the door slid open. A wall of moist heat crashed into her and the urge to flee—to never see what slithered in the dark recesses of the room—almost overrode her reason.

"Computer, raise lights fifteen per—"

Beverly's words were cut off as rough hands wrapped around her face and shoved her into the pitch dark room.


	14. Chapter 14

Beverly dropped the PADD and swung her elbow back as hard as she could. She thanked Worf for his self-defence training when she made contact with flesh behind her. Her assailant grunted, and the grip on her weakened. She released the fungus—praying the sludge on her uniform top would be sufficient to keep her clear-headed—and spun to face her attacker.

Whoever had pushed her into the closet had closed the door behind them, and aside from the soft glow from the Xenus-Marconi splattered at her feet and across her chest, she was totally blind. She could only hope her attacker was at a similar disadvantage.

Hands lunged for her face and Beverly belatedly realized the goop on her uniform made her an easy target. She dodged the incoming arms, grabbed the left one, and spun on her right heel. Her assailant hissed as she twisted his arm up behind his back.

"Computer, increase lights twenty-five percent," she said.

She blinked in the sudden light and only her training as a Starfleet officer kept her from releasing her attacker and fleeing into the corridor behind her. The captain turned his head in an effort to see her.

"You will release me immediately," he said.

Beverly's head buzzed with a million angry hornets, and her grip on the captain's arm weakened. He slipped from her grip and spun to face her. He thrust a hand under her chin and shoved her against the nearest wall.

"You should not be here," he said, as though nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

Beverly didn't respond.

"Tell me how you found the storage closet without me."

The captain shifted his body slightly, and Beverly could see into the room for the first time.

If she could have drawn breath past the captain's cruel fingers, she would have screamed.


	15. Chapter 15

Deanna studied the Parnellian sympathizer currently residing in the brig and shook her head. How someone could support the Parnellian cause, never mind actively work with them to destroy the Federation, baffled her.

She fought the urge to return to the bridge. The captain hadn't explicitly ordered her to check on the prisoner, but she'd reasoned he'd want a report sooner or later. And by making her observations now, she might garner additional praise for such a noteworthy performance of her duties.

"Is there anything you need?" Deanna asked.

The woman looked up from studying her hands. "My conditions are satisfactory, thank you," she said.

Deanna tilted her head, puzzled. She couldn't sense anything from the woman behind the forcefield, but she was positive the report stated the prisoner was human. Deanna stepped closer to the invisible wall.

"Are you sure? You are entitled to humane treatment while awaiting your trial."

The woman shook her head. "I am being well cared for."

Deanna thought she caught a whiff of something—resignation?—from her. "Yet there is something you wish you had, isn't there?"

The prisoner stood and moved toward the counselor with liquid grace. Deanna gasped at the movement – it was remarkable in its rarity, yet somehow familiar. Less than a foot separated her from the traitor, and she could barely read her.

The woman sighed. "I miss colour," she said. "Something alive and vibrant." She gestured at the beige cell. "Everything in here is so dull. I'd love a bouquet of flowers—"

The woman stopped and covered her mouth.

"What?" Deanna asked.

The traitor shook her head. "I have asked for too much."

"No," Deanna replied. "A bunch of flowers isn't unreasonable, but I doubt you'll be given a glass vase to put them in. Plastic will have to do."

"Thank you."

Deanna said, "It's my duty to see that you receive proper and respectful care. I will have one of the security crewmembers bring you some flowers at the shift change."

The woman nodded and returned to the bench seat moulded into the far wall. She tucked her feet under her and rested her chin on one raised knee. She tilted her head so her face was hidden by her long auburn hair.

Deanna may not have been able to sense any emotions, but she could read body language – the interview was over.

_Still_, she thought, _I have learned a few things about this woman. The captain will be pleased_.

She stopped at the security desk on her way out of the brig. She left instructions regarding the greenery to be delivered, and headed back to the bridge. A connection with the prisoner had been made, and Deanna felt sure she'd be able to use it to further question the traitor if required. In time, this Beverly Crusher person would tell her everything she knew about the Parnellian battle plans.


	16. Chapter 16

Beverly stared at the flowers propped in the cell's sink. She couldn't take her eyes from their riot of colours. They were beautiful beyond her expectations, and she knew, as an enemy-sympathizer, she didn't deserve such a rich gift.

She didn't deserve to live.

The message played over and over again in her mind.

She was in league with the enemy, seeking to harm her own people. She was the lowest of the low, and should be hated and reviled by those around her. She deserved nothing.

Beverly sighed. Her fingers itched to stroke the soft leaves and to feel the brush of the silken petals against her cheek, but instead she remained seated as far from the flowers as possible in her tiny cell.

_I am not worthy enough to touch such beauty_, she thought.

Still, the siren call of their beauty sang to her soul.

She glanced past the forcefield at the guard manning the desk. He seemed intent on reading his computer screen, and didn't show any sign of interest in her. She wondered if she might wander closer—perhaps to pour herself a cup of water—and 'accidentally' brush against the greenery. She wouldn't linger, or let herself visibly admire the flowers, but surely, she reasoned, a split second of contact wouldn't hurt.

She could always apologize to the counselor for her temerity later.

Beverly approached the sink on high alert. She listened for any reaction from the guard, and when no shouts for her to step away from the bouquet came, she allowed herself to relax a little.

She reached for the plastic cup and placed it under the faucet, careful not to disturb the gorgeous blossoms too much. Her fingers brushed the petals of a salmon pink carnation, and she sighed blissfully.

A soft perfume filled the air surrounding the sink, and Beverly inhaled deeply. She could discern the slightly spicy aroma of the carnations among the muskier roses. She thought she could detect the sharper scent of clematis and jasmine as well.

Beverly opened her eyes and stared in horror at her reflection in the mirror.

She remembered.


	17. Chapter 17

Beverly set the cup on the counter and plucked three flowers from the bunch. She glanced at the guard, who was watching her actions with disinterest, and smiled shyly. He grunted and returned his attention to his computer screen.

She curled up on the shelf that served as a bed in the cell. She shifted so she faced the rear wall, and hoped the guard would think she was resting.

Her pulse raced as she brought the blooms to her nose. She closed her eyes to better focus on the memories surfacing like bubbles in a nearly boiling flask.

She wasn't a Parnellian sympathizer.

Or a traitor.

Her chest constricted as the events of the recent past began to trickle into her consciousness.

She'd found him. She'd found Jean-Luc Picard.

Beverly bit her lip to keep the wave of anguish from overwhelming her.

She'd found him only to lose him forever in the same moment.

The memories seemed to pile one on top of the other as she pressed the flowers to her lips.

Jean-Luc.

Beverly winced. Her heart felt six sizes too big, and it pressed painfully into her lungs. She tried to breathe through the pain, but nothing eased her discomfort.

How could she have forgotten?

Unshed tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she recalled the truth of the events leading up to Jean-Luc's 'disappearance.'

The _Enterprise_ had been sent to mediate the dispute between the Shintori and the Parnellians, both of whom claimed to want admission into the UFP. The ship was to be designated neutral ground, and Jean-Luc was tasked with the challenge of negotiating a settlement to a centuries-old conflict.

In preparation for the mediation, both parties were permitted to visit the _Enterprise_ and assure themselves—and their representative governments—of the suitability of the vessel for the peace talks. The Parnellians seemed to enjoy the tour, and were extremely impressed with the advanced level of technology in routine use.

The Shintori, however, had been less congenial. Their ambassador had insisted ship-board air was unsuitable for his lungs, and despite Beverly's assurances, he insisted on bringing several potted plants along for his tour.

Beverly frowned. She remembered cautioning Jean-Luc against bringing unidentified flora onto the ship without proper study, but the pressure from Starfleet to conclude these talks and bring both star systems into the Federation meant scientific research had to take a backseat to diplomacy. If the ambassador wanted to ride a fire-breathing elephant through the corridors, Jean-Luc would be expected to not only provide the animal, but clean up after it.

The Shintori ambassador beamed aboard with his plants and Beverly's suspicions multiplied. The succulents in the pots looked nothing like the plants in the digital file she'd been grudgingly presented with when she'd insisted she know at least _something _about the materials being brought on board.

She'd wanted to warn Jean-Luc, but the opportunity never presented itself. She'd resolved to mention her concerns as soon as the ambassador beamed off the ship, but that moment had never happened because the instant the plants were beamed on board, the Shintori's trap had been sprung.


	18. Chapter 18

"Crusher to Picard. Captain, I think you need to see this."

Beverly remembered working late in her lab after the ambassador's visit. She'd found a bite-sized piece of the plants he'd insisted be placed throughout the ship so he could be assured of only breathing air suitable for a Shintori diplomat, and had tucked it into her lab coat. Under normal circumstances, Beverly would have simply taken a cutting from one of the succulents, but each time she approached one, she felt the driving need to avoid it, never mind harm it.

Jean-Luc entered the lab and her heart missed a beat. The lines around his eyes were more pronounced, and his uniform top was wrinkled across the back from sitting for too long, but to her, he was perfect. His features showed concern over being summoned to her science lab in the wee hours of the ship's night, but—and this is what _really_ triggered her heart palpitations—there was something more underneath; the hint of a smile, a glimmer in his tired hazel eyes, a spark that seemed to burn brighter whenever he made eye contact with her.

"Doctor," he'd said.

"Captain," she'd replied, a smile tugging at her lips at the formality. She used to tease him about his rigid adherence to protocol even when they were alone, and now the use of their titles in private was their little in-joke. Beverly's stomach flip-flopped – it was more than a joke – the way he said, "doctor" was peppered with more intimacy than anything else she'd ever been called.

She'd pulled her attention from his gaze and turned to explain her findings when the Shintori ambassador walked in.

Annoyance flickered across Jean-Luc's face, but he quickly masked it. "Ambassador, I was under the understanding you had beamed down at the conclusion of your tour."

The ambassador smiled coldly. "On the contrary, Captain, you requested I remain on board. I am here by your express request."

Jean-Luc frowned. "I don't—"

The ambassador waved his hand. "It's not important. What is, however, is what we're going to do with the additional time we have together."

"Ambassador, I'm afraid I don't have much spare time at the moment," Jean-Luc said.

"Oh, I believe you will make the time."

Beverly shivered at the ice in the ambassador's voice.

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I apologize, Ambassador, but—"

"If you do not comply," the ambassador interrupted, pulling a disruptor from within his robe, "I will kill the doctor."


	19. Chapter 19

Beverly poised on the balls of her feet, ready to dive out of the line of fire.

"You will do no such thing," Jean-Luc said, every muscle coiled to step between the ambassador and his target.

Jean-Luc shifted his weight, and Beverly tensed.

"Freeze!" the ambassador ordered, and a loud buzzing filled the tiny lab.

Beverly stood rooted to the spot, and Jean-Luc appeared equally bound. The roaring hornets grew to a deafening volume, and Beverly forgot why she wanted to move in the first place.

The ambassador strolled over to her and placed the disruptor against her temple. The weapon was curiously warm against her skin, and she hoped it wasn't from recent use.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" he said. "Captain Picard, you will accompany the doctor and me for a short walk, and then you will give me your undivided attention. If you do as required, Dr. Crusher will live. If not, then I will be left with the task of finding a new CMO for your sickbay."

Beverly swallowed past the knot of fear in her throat. She met Jean-Luc's eyes and silently begged him not to acquiesce. She _hated_ hostage situations. She would rather die than watch him compromise his principles in a futile effort to keep her safe.

Jean-Luc kept his features neutral, but the terror—and impotent rage—behind his steady gaze was as clear to her as the communicator on his tunic.

She willed herself to relax slightly. The minutest of nods from Jean-Luc told her the plan. They would play along with the ambassador until an opportunity to disarm him presented itself. She ran through several self-defence techniques as they exited her lab and walked through sickbay.

Beverly's confidence in their plan weakened as they passed her night shift crew. She'd expected the ambassador to hide the disruptor in order to avoid attracting attention, but he kept it squarely pressed into the side of her head. His grip on her arm remained firm as they followed Jean-Luc down the corridor leading to the OR suites.

Beverly's pulse raced. Something was seriously wrong. She'd made eye contact with at least three of her staff, and none had reacted to her situation as though it were out of the ordinary. Two had vacant expressions on their faces, and the third had actually nodded in greeting.

If she got out of this alive, she was going to have a serious chat with them about their powers of observation and deduction.

They reached the end of the corridor and the ambassador directed Jean-Luc to open the door to the utility closet. Beverly wondered about the ambassador's choice of location for an assassination. Most people choose places from which they have a chance of escape. A dead-end closet at the end of a dead-end corridor seemed like a poor plan.

She mentally shrugged. Maybe it meant she and Jean-Luc had a better chance of escaping unharmed.

_Deanna always jokes that I work so hard I'm going to die in my sickbay_, she mused, _but something makes me think she didn't quite mean it this way_.

Beverly gasped as she stepped into the tiny room. Thick, oozing vines clung to every surface. They wrapped themselves throughout the shelving and made the room almost unrecognizable. Sweat trickled down her back as the increased temperature and humidity made a terrible situation even more unpleasant.

"Now," said the ambassador, "let's make ourselves comfortable and I'll explain how we'll proceed from here."


	20. Chapter 20

Beverly shuddered and swallowed the bile burning her throat. She kept her face pressed into the side of the sleeping area, hoping the guard would mistake her muffled sobs for restless sleep.

She remembered.

She remembered the ambassador whipping the disrupter across her face to prove his seriousness to Jean-Luc. She remembered the vines reaching down and pinning him as he struggled to come to her aid. She remembered the ambassador shooting her in the abdomen—on the lowest setting—and regaining consciousness long enough to hear the ambassador telling Jean-Luc that each time he fought back, the ambassador would raise the setting and shoot again.

"I have no idea which setting will be fatal for her," he'd said, "but most don't make it past the fourth."

Beverly's chest threatened to collapse as she recalled the worst moment. She'd watched, agonizing bursts of energy randomly firing throughout her body, as Jean-Luc's shoulders slumped and he nodded.

"I will comply with your demands," he'd said. "You have my word as a Starfleet officer."

"No," she'd croaked.

The ambassador directed him to sit among the vines, and within seconds the plants attached themselves everywhere. They burrowed into the skin along the inside of his arms, sent tendrils into the blood vessels radiating out from his temples, and dug through his tunic to embed themselves in his abdomen.

"Jean-Luc!" she'd cried. She tried to reach him but her trembling limbs refused to obey. She was trapped on the floor of the closet, helpless and unable to save him.

The memory of the ambassador calmly explaining to her how they'd return to the closet every few days to 'feed' the plant and monitor Jean-Luc's life signs rolled through her like a tsunami. Beverly bit her lip until she tasted blood.

She should have saved him.

It didn't matter that she hadn't had control over her body. She shouldn't have left him.

Her lungs threatened to implode under the weight of her greatest sin: she shouldn't have forgotten him.


	21. Chapter 21

"Get up," the guard ordered.

Beverly ignored him.

"Get up now, Parnellian scum!" he shouted. "The captain wishes to speak with you, and you will comply!"

_Jean-Luc?_

Beverly quickly sat and faced the forcefield. The hope in her heart died when she found the ambassador staring back at her. He gestured for the invisible wall to be lowered and then stepped into her cell.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and spoke to a spot on the wall roughly six inches above her head. "I would have killed you days ago, but it seems our friend possesses a stronger will than I expected."

He paused and glanced down at her. She shivered.

"It seems he is going to hold me to my end of the bargain. If I can't produce you, alive and unharmed, every three days, he will actively resist the implants." The ambassador scowled. "When I arrived alone this morning—mostly to see how he'd react to your absence—he waited long enough to assure himself you weren't coming then simply stared at me as he willed the plants to order the crew in engineering to jettison the warp core."

Beverly bit back a smile. Jean-Luc was still in there. Somewhere amongst the plants that were slowly consuming him alive, he still lived.

This time she would remember, and she would save him.

The ambassador stared at her, apparently waiting for a response.

"I am a traitor. I do not deserve to be in your presence."

The ambassador's thin lips parted in a mockery of a smile. "True, but I'm afraid we're going to have to spend a little more time together today. I need you to visit a friend."

"I have no friends, I am not worthy of social relationships."

"Finally," he said. "The last dose left you slightly smarter than a half-steamed vegetable, but you're finally compliant. Do you remember him? The man, Picard?"

Beverly stared, slack-jawed over the ambassador's shoulder—imagining how an al dente vegetable would attempt to ponder—and let her head loll slowly to the side. She imagined the synapses in her mind firing in slow motion, sending impulses through a thick syrup rather than by jumping across nano-chasms at the speed of light.

After what seemed like an appropriately vegetative time, she replied, "No."

He nodded. "Good. You will come with me, now."


	22. Chapter 22

Beverly followed the ambassador down the corridor toward the turbolift. He never once glanced back, apparently satisfied she was indeed finally broken. She waited for him to enter the small lift and contemplated making a run for it before he could react.

She ruled out the plan for two reasons: one, she had no idea where she could go to regroup and strategize, and two, she needed to see Jean-Luc.

The kernel of a plan materialized as she followed the ambassador's order to enter the turbolift. Beverly's skin crawled as she stood with her left arm pressed against the wall of the lift. Phantom fingers closed around her throat as she recalled the last time she'd been in close proximity with the ambassador.

She willed herself not to show any sign of her fear or revulsion. She lowered her head and took a deep breath of the flowers pressed into the collar of her prison jumper. She would not forget.

The ambassador exited the lift and strode down the corridor. Beverly winced and checked her steps as her natural inclination to match her pace to whomever she was walking with almost gave her disguise away. She slowed and envisioned herself as a puff of cotton being pushed along the carpet by a gentle breeze. She drifted behind the ambassador, and when he peered over his shoulder and, seeing her vacant expression, smiled, she knew she'd nailed the part.

The ambassador waltzed into her sickbay—Selar's sickbay according to the new pip on her collar—and ordered her not to let anyone disturb him while he questioned the prisoner.

"Yes, Captain," Selar said.

Beverly gritted her teeth. The title of 'Captain' belonged to only one man on this ship, and the vile Shintori ambassador was not that man.

Her pulse skittered as they wended their way between the biobeds toward the corridor leading to the surgical suites. She was running out of time. She had to act fast if she was going to save Jean-Luc.

Alyssa Ogawa finished loading an instrument tray and turned to take it to one of the nearby biobeds. As the nurse moved closer to the center of the room, Beverly let her cotton-puff style of movement carry her closer.

She 'oohed' and gaped at the central ceiling light as though seeing it for the first time. She kept drifting, giving the appearance that her path toward Ogawa and the tray of hyposprays was entirely accidental. Beverly cursed inwardly as she struggled to keep Ogawa in her peripheral vision while craning her neck to appear totally absorbed by the damn overhead light.

Ice poured down her spine when she thought, for a split second, she'd mistimed her journey. Alyssa thumped heavily into Beverly's back and Beverly made sure they both fell to the ground.

Beverly scanned the array of instruments and spotted the one she needed. She grabbed it then tucked it up her sleeve. She then sat back and crossed her legs, making no attempt to rise or help out.

The ambassador stormed over, his knees blocking her view of the rest of sickbay. "What is the meaning of this?"

Beverly raised her head as though moving through molasses. "The light," she said.

"What light?"

She tilted her head further back so she stared at the ceiling and let a beatific smile spread across her features. "That one," she whispered.

The ambassador snorted. "Get up you useless sack of DNA. Get up now and follow me."

"Capt—" Ogawa started to speak but was cut off when Beverly flung her arm out, sending the petite nurse sprawling again.

The ambassador growled and flung his hands in the air. He glared at Ogawa as she worked to collect all the instruments scattered across the floor. A twinge of guilt pecked at Beverly for having given her top nurse extra work—all the instruments would have to be sterilized and tested for damage prior to being put in circulation again—but she couldn't have Ogawa telling the ambassador about the missing hypospray.

"I thought you possessed more coordination prior to my turning you into a turnip," he said to Beverly. "Now get up—without causing any further damage to my sickbay—and follow me."

_His sickbay?_ Beverly ground her teeth. _His sickbay?_

She swallowed the scathing verbal attack poised on the tip of her tongue and mutely trailed behind him as he led them to the utility closet.

The ambassador paused before opening the door. He turned to face Beverly and said, "It is imperative you do not disturb anything in here. So, whatever you do, don't touch _anything_."

She nodded, keeping her expression vacant.

She had no intention of touching the plants in the closet – at least not until she understood them better and felt confident she could free Jean-Luc without harming him.

No, she had other plans for when they entered the room.


	23. Chapter 23

Jean-Luc Picard closed himself off from the ever-present pain. He no longer felt the vines as an external force, but as extensions of himself. The plant and its psychotropic components kept him alive, kept him coherent, while slowly siphoning away his life.

He'd realized almost immediately the plant—vaguely sentient in its own right, but somehow tuned to the telepathic abilities of the Shintori—was tapping his mind and creating a world in the subconsciousnesses of his crew where the ambassador served as the ship's captain. The psychotropic pheromones released by the plants throughout the ship kept the crew firmly entrenched in the artificial reality.

Even now, Jean-Luc found himself occasionally thinking of the ambassador as the captain, and he had to repeatedly remind himself this was not the case. Jean-Luc's strength of will prevented the ambassador from totally taking over. He risked the pain on a daily—sometimes hourly—basis to assert his own will on the ship and her crew, sometimes with positive results, and sometimes with no apparent change.

He'd felt as though his brain was being flayed alive from the inside when the ambassador had shown up without Beverly and he'd used every ounce of strength he possessed to alter the pheromones being broadcast in engineering. The result—the near-jettisoning of the warp core—had vastly exceeded his expectations, and led him to believe he just might be able to do more to save his ship.

If only he could hang onto himself for a little longer.

_Beverly_.

Beverly was his link to himself. She was his hope, and his one chance at salvation. If anyone could remove the alien flora without killing him, it would be her. And, while he had faith in all his crew, he would also wager if anyone was to figure out the mystery of the ambassador while under pheremonic control, it would be her.

The ambassador had guessed correctly when he tried to use Beverly to force him to comply. He would do _anything_ to keep her from harm.

_But_, he mused, _the ambassador neglected to notice she is also my greatest strength_. As an officer and a friend she both challenged and completed him. He could never give all of himself to the plants invading his body because she already held a huge portion of him in her. So long as she lived, he would too.

Jean-Luc waited, drifting in and out of awareness, for the moment when Beverly—the real Beverly, not the automaton created by the pheromones—appeared. He knew they would have only one chance, and he had to be ready to act.


	24. Chapter 24

The ambassador unlocked the door and gestured for Beverly to precede him.

_Damn_, she thought, _why couldn't he have walked in first?_

He placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her so she stood squarely in front of Jean-Luc. She kept her head lowered to better inhale the flowers tucked into her collar. The copious vines were making her feel fuzzy and her heart raced as panic started to set in. She'd have to make her move before she lost her reason.

The ambassador kicked Jean-Luc's foot and said, "Look who I've got with me."

Beverly raised her head, genuinely afraid of what she'd see in his eyes, and steeled herself for the worst.

He was pale—almost greenish—and thinner. The weak nutrient supplement the ambassador had been making her feed him wasn't enough to offset the energy the plants were stealing. The skin around his eyes was tight, and deep creases marred his forehead.

_Pain. So much pain in that face_, she thought. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she blinked them away. She couldn't react, couldn't show emotion in front of the ambassador.

Beverly met Jean-Luc's steady gaze and her heart froze. He appeared acutely aware of her presence. He kept his face expressionless, but his eyes asked a question as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud.

She did the first thing that came to mind. She glanced at the ambassador, back to Jean-Luc, and then rolled her eyes.

Jean-Luc sputtered and turned his reaction into a cough. After his "fit" subsided, he returned his face to its stoic mask, but—to Beverly's intense relief—his eyes twinkled behind the torment.

"There we go," the ambassador said. "Now you've seen her. I expect you to keep my ship running smoothly."

Jean-Luc let his gaze flicker over the ambassador before returning to her. She thought she could feel his animosity toward the usurper filtering through the room like a fog.

Jean-Luc was there. If she could separate him from the Borg, she could do the same with these plants. He could be saved.

But first she had to regain control of the ship.

She rubbed her sweat-slicked palms on her jumper. She turned, hoping to catch the ambassador off guard, but before she could make her move, the lights went out and the ship lurched violently.


	25. Chapter 25

Beverly fell into the ambassador as they hit the deck, hard. She grunted as the wind blasted from her lungs in the impact.

"Get off me!" he shouted, trying to push her off.

She let the hypospray slip from her sleeve into her hand. She kept her body limp, making it extremely challenging for the ambassador to throw her off from his awkward position below. She raised her hands, groping blindly for his face.

"Ow! What do you think you're—"

Beverly's fingers connected with his left eye socket and she, none-too-gently, pretended to pat down his face.

"Who are you?" she asked, hoping to prolong her disguise.

The ambassador growled.

"Get off me! And you," he paused, turning his head in Jean-Luc's general direction, "get my ship under control or I'll make sure you never see your precious doctor again."

The ship shuddered violently, matching the rage coursing through Beverly's veins. She slid her hand down the ambassador's jaw and located his carotid artery—or whatever the Shintori equivalent was—and pressed the hypospray into his flesh.

The hiss of the discharging drugs filled the sudden silence in the room.

"What ha—" the ambassador's voice cut off mid-word.

Beverly jumped off the Shintori's prone form and said, "Computer, lights, twenty-five percent."

Jean-Luc spent most of his time in total darkness; she didn't want to blind him.

A soft amber light filled the room and she rushed to his side.

"Jean-Luc, can you hear me? Do you understand me?"

"Beverly," he whispered through cracked lips.

She scanned the vines encasing him and her chest lurched. Separating him would be more complex than she imagined. She'd need more time than the sedative she'd hit the ambassador with would allow.

She placed her hand on his lower jaw—one of the few exposed pieces of flesh—and rubbed her thumb along his rough stubble. Anger made her fingers tremble. No one had shaved or cleaned him since she'd been dumped in the brig.

"I'm going to get you out of this, I promise," she said.

Jean-Luc let his head loll against her hand and sighed.

"But I'm going to need your help. Can you help me?"

He opened his eyes and met her gaze. "Anything for you," he said, the words so soft they were barely more than a breath.

She smiled for him. All her love for him, and her rage at the string of injustices perpetrated against him, mingled in the gesture, and once again she found herself near tears.

"I need you to hold the ambassador here," she said. "I need you to keep him from escaping."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

A mammoth fist closed over Beverly's heart as Jean-Luc grimaced in agony. She opened her mouth to order him to stop, but before she could form the words the vines on the floor slithered toward the ambassador's prone form.

They didn't move quickly. She guessed it would take Jean-Luc at least five minutes to force the closest tendril to make contact with the Shintori.

Beverly dug through the vines and clasped Jean-Luc's hand. She didn't want to ask more of him—he was grey and sweating from his current efforts—but there was no way she'd get through sickbay unaccosted without his assistance.

"Jean-Luc, I need you to do one more thing," she said, squeezing his hand. "Can you convince everyone on the crew I'm supposed to be out and about? Can you make them remember me as a Starfleet officer?"

He squeezed her hand and gave his head the barest of shakes. "Can't... do... both..." he said, and her heart sank.

Beverly ran her free hand through her hair and willed her mind to work. She had to get to the Jeffries tube outside environmental control if she was going to put a stop to the plants' psychotropic effects.

He opened his eyes and gripped her hand more tightly. "Sorry."

She smiled and shook her head, "No, Jean-Luc, you're doing more than enough. I'll get there on my own. I swear."

She gave his hand one last squeeze before stepping over the ambassador's inert body. Beverly grabbed the hypospray from the floor and hefted it. It wasn't the best weapon out there, but it would have to do.


	26. Chapter 26

Beverly peered around the corner of the corridor and observed the action in sickbay. No one seemed the least bit concerned she and the ambassador had not returned yet. She tapped the hypospray against her leg—injector port facing away from her thigh—and pondered. She needed to get through sickbay unseen or someone would go looking for the ambassador.

She turned and ducked into a nearby operation room, and toggled the communication console. The computer chirped, and she crossed her fingers.

"Computer, initiate bio-contaminate emergency lockdown in xeno-botany lab five, authorization Crusher-one-one-zero-one-alpha-three."

Beverly bit her tongue to stop herself from letting out a whoop of joy when the computer responded, "Initiating bio-contaminate emergency lockdown."

She grinned and thanked the ambassador for his laziness. His confidence in the mind-altering plants meant he hadn't bothered to remove her from the databanks – just everyone's memories.

She counted to twenty once the localized red alert alarm began to blare. Beverly wanted to give those in the central area time to gather what they needed to address the emergency in lab five. She smirked. The most dangerous thing currently residing in lab five was a sample of Hershellian Pax Moss; totally non-toxic, non-flammable, and entirely hypoallergenic unless the person touching it had scales instead of skin.

Beverly returned to the corridor and headed toward the central area of sickbay. She peered around the corner again and her shoulders dropped in relief. The room was empty. She darted across the open space and out the door.

Her dash to the turbolift would have been uneventful if she hadn't run—literally—into a security guard heading to sickbay to check on the disaster. He recognized her almost immediately, and thankfully she was able to sedate him before he could draw his phaser.

Beverly exhaled as the turbolift doors closed. Remorse pressed against her back as she recalled the man's jelly-like fall to the deck. She reminded herself not to feel too badly as the guard would surely understand why she'd done it once everyone's memories had been restored.

With that in mind, she sprinted from the lift as soon as the doors opened. Beverly hoped Jean-Luc would be able to keep the ambassador incapacitated, but she couldn't count on it. She had to act fast, before someone discovered the Shintori and set him free.

Beverly grabbed the handles on the access panel and pulled. The seal snapped with a hiss and Beverly carefully set the panel on the deck before crawling inside. Once in, she turned and pulled the panel back into place behind her.

_No sense advertising where I'm going_, she thought.

She crawled through the central Jeffries tube until she found the branch leading to the environmental control room. She took the right-hand tube and proceeded as quickly as anyone crawling on a metal grid could go. One of these days she was going to talk with Geordi about carpeting these things.

She reached the panel granting her access to the control room and popped it off. When no one sounded the alarm at her unexpected presence, she crawled all the way out of the tube and stood. The room—as she'd hoped—was deserted.

Beverly headed for the giant fan/filter combination whirring on the rear wall. The micro-filters were obviously unsuccessful at capturing the pheromones, so she couldn't simply filter the drug from the ship's systems. She moved to the computer station controlling the filters and used her command code to override the filter mechanism. She then ordered a large pot of coffee from the nearby replicator.

She inhaled deeply as the aroma of freshly ground beans filled the room. She'd contemplated using a strongly-scented flower, but as O'Brien had seemed to be under the influence of the plants—or at least unaware of what was going on elsewhere on the ship—she reasoned not everyone responded to the scent of flora like she had.

_But_, Beverly thought, _almost every life form on board the D relishes the scent of coffee_.

She approached the fans and splashed the hot liquid onto the blades. Instantly the room filled with the odor to the exclusion of all else. She darted back to the replicator and ordered another pot.

After more than a dozen pots of coffee, Beverly could no longer smell the drink, but she could feel herself vibrating from the excessive caffeine in the air. She set the fans to their highest power and hoped enough people would regain their memories long enough for her to convince them to dispose of the plants infesting the ship.

She sent out a ship-wide memo instructing all crewmembers to search out and destroy any and all succulents found beyond the confines of the arboretum. She left detailed instructions ordering people to avoid direct contact with the plants, but to vaporize them from a distance wherever possible.

If a crewmember were unable to destroy the plant, he or she was ordered to report its existence to security, who would—she hoped—take care of the disposal.

Beverly was about to brave the corridors and take a more direct route back to sickbay and Jean-Luc, when Riker's voice boomed over the ship's intercom.

"All hands report to battle stations. The Parnellians are making their final stand. All hands report to battle stations."


	27. Chapter 27

The red alert klaxon blared as Beverly took to the Jeffries tubes again. She had no way of determining how effective her coffee cure was—and given Riker's orders, it obviously wasn't at one hundred percent—and she couldn't risk being apprehended and tossed into the brig again.

She passed the access panel that would take her to the shaft leading to the deck where sickbay was located, instead choosing to crawl until she reached the emergency shaft that would give her access to the bridge. All she wanted to do was rush to sickbay and save Jean-Luc, but she knew neither of them would be able to live with themselves if she allowed the _Enterprise_ to slaughter the Parnellians.

"Damn you, Will Riker," Beverly muttered as she gripped the first rung leading up. "You'd think with a barrel chest like that, you'd breathe more deeply." She clenched her jaw and resolved to put Will through an exhaustive battery of tests to determine his lung capacity in exchange for the torture he was about to put her through.

Her arms and legs trembled uncontrollably and she hadn't even started climbing yet. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then swung out over the chasm. Her prisoner's loafers made contact with a rung, and Beverly prayed her sweaty palms wouldn't send her plummeting to her death.

After what seemed like five lifetimes, Beverly finally reached the summit of the shaft and the tiny hatch leading into the observation lounge. She popped the hatch and crawled in under the display housing the gold models of all the ships named _Enterprise_.

Her arms and legs continued to shake—this time more from exertion than terror—and she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling while she tried to catch her breath. The blinking red alert beacons were the only lights in the room, and they cast everything in an eerie, pulsating glow.

Once her heartbeat dropped below the "immanent risk of cardiac arrest" level, she regained her feet and headed toward the bridge. She had no idea how she'd get Riker to stop his attack—she highly doubted she'd be able to subdue Worf with nothing but a hypospray—but she had to try. With only thirty Parnellian ships left in the galaxy, she had to stop the genocide before the Parnellian population dropped below their ability to recover.

With no time left to formulate a better plan, she strode onto the bridge and down the right side of the horseshoe.

"Will you've got to call off the attack immediately," she ordered.

"Halt!" Worf shouted as he drew his phaser. He leapt over the railing and placed himself between Beverly and Riker.

"Doctor?" Will said.

"Beverly?" Deanna said, confused.

Beverly raised her arms, palms outward, in a gesture of goodwill. She hoped Worf wouldn't shoot before asking questions. And if he did shoot, she hoped his phaser was set to stun.

"Beverly," Deanna asked, "why are you dressed in a—?"

"Prisoner's jumpsuit," Worf said, interrupting.

Beverly eyed Deanna, trying to gauge how much the empath remembered of her visit to the brig. Seeing nothing but genuine confusion, she decided to keep it simple.

"I was in the holodeck."

Will smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"That's none of your damned business," Beverly replied. "Now call off the attack."

Beverly hoped Will wouldn't ask if she'd been with the captain. For one, she didn't want to have to determine which captain he was referring to, and two, she really didn't want to have to tell him Jean-Luc was a little too tied up at the moment to solve the crisis.

She'd never live that comment down.

"I can't," Will said.

"Then surrender."

He shook his head. "I tried that as soon as my memory returned. The Parnellians have refused to offer any terms, saying they are well within their rights to annihilate us in exchange for the devastation we have caused them."

As if to punctuate Will's explanation, the ship rocked under a barrage of phaser fire. The deck lurched and Beverly grabbed for the back of the first officer's chair. Worf charged back to tactical and read off the incoming reports.

"Widespread phaser fire across the forward shields. Shields holding at one hundred percent. No damage, sir."

"Mr. Worf, target the lead ship, tactical pattern Riker-one-theta-six."

"Aye, sir. Riker-one-theta-six."

"Will, no!" Beverly shouted.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I can't let this go on."


	28. Chapter 28

Will struggled to maintain his hold on reality. One second he believed with every cell of his body he needed to exterminate the Parnellians massed against his ship, and the next he believed—just as deeply—the simple aliens needed protection from a larger threat. The constant flip-flopping between realities was making him queasy.

The moment the 'right' reality set in, he gave the order.

"Fire."

All heads turned to regard the viewscreen. Riker held his breath. _If this didn't work_...

"Damn it, Commander, no!" the doctor shouted.

He frowned. He felt he should know why she was wearing one of the brig's jumpsuits; and he was positive it had nothing to do with a holodeck adventure.

"Sir, targets incapacitated," said Worf. "They should have no choice but to hear our terms now."

Riker shook his head. "No."

"No, sir?"

"We will not dictate the terms of our own surrender."

Worf snorted. "Surrender? We just disabled the weapons systems on more than two dozen ships! They should be cowering at our feet!"

"The Parnellians will do no such thing!" Riker said, anger prickling the hairs of his beard. "The captain would not—"

Riker stumbled and grabbed the ops console for support.

"The captain—" he tried again.

"Captain Picard," said the doctor.

He nodded slowly. "Captain... Picard..."

The name felt hazy, like a half-remembered dream, and he struggled to dredge it up from the recesses of his memory.

"But the other captain, the one who..." Riker's words trailed off as he gestured weakly at the ships on the viewscreen. "He... where...?"

Beverly stepped closer to him, and the faint scent of flowers followed her every move. She held his gaze and said, "There is only one captain of this ship. His name is Jean-Luc Picard. He's a brilliant tactician, an outstanding diplomat, and one of the finest officers to ever wear Starfleet's uniform."

He felt his reality tilt again with her words.

"Oh my god, Beverly," Riker said, grabbing her arms. "The captain! Did you find him? He's not really dead, is he?"

A dark shadow crossed her face and she swallowed.

"No, he's not dead."

Riker grinned. If anyone could get them out of this mess with the Parnellians—he still couldn't decide if he was supposed to blow them up or offer them sanctuary—it was Jean-Luc Picard. "Please tell me he's on board the ship."

She bit her lip and nodded.

Riker let go of her arms and slapped his thigh. "That settles it then. Lieutenant Worf, open a channel with the lead Parnellian vessel. Tell them our captain will—"

"No, Will!" Beverly interrupted.

Will turned to face the distraction. He scowled. _Why is there a Parnellian collaborator on the bridge?_

"What do you think you're doing here?" he demanded.

Colour blossomed across her cheekbones and she straightened her spine.

"I am trying to stop a genocide!"

The spicy scent of nasturtiums accosted him as he leaned in to intimidate the enemy.

Riker blinked. _Enemy?_

"It's not working," she said. "I need something stronger."

Will shook his head. "Doctor, what are you talking about?"

"The smell," she said. "The coffee isn't working anymore. You're starting to forget."

"How come you're not?"

Beverly stepped back and blinked. "The flowers," she said. "I have flowers tucked into the neck of my top. Their scent is blocking the pheromones."

Deanna gasped and ran from the bridge and into the captain's ready room. Before Will could think to ask her what she was doing in there, she returned carrying half a dozen wreath-shaped floral arrangements. She draped one over her own head, then Will's, and then proceeded to pass them out to the rest of the crew.

The painful reality switching stopped almost instantly once the wreath settled across his shoulders. Will clenched his hands into fists as he recalled the way he and the crew had been manipulated by the Shintori ambassador.

Will turned to Worf. "Signal their lead ship. Tell them to stand by. Then take a team—make sure everyone is wearing one of these wreaths—and start scouring the decks for those blasted cacti. If you find one, vaporize it. You can start with the ones in the ready room and observation lounge."

"Aye, sir."

Will tried not to chuckle as the Klingon strode down the ramp, phaser drawn. He had to admit, the mass of frilly pink and purple blossoms made it look as though the warrior had lost a particularly nasty bet.

"Doctor, I need—"

She waved off his words. "You're not going to blow up the Parnellians, are you?"

He shook his head.

"Good."

She turned and sped up the ramp leading to the turbolift.

"Doctor, wait!" he called. "I need you to figure out a way to—"

She shook her head. "As long as you don't take those flowers off you'll be fine. I'm needed elsewhere."

Riker frowned. He didn't like being countermanded. Still, knowing Beverly, she had a good reason – and he'd be stupid to press his luck too far.

"Where?" he asked.

"I'm going to save the captain."


	29. Chapter 29

Beverly slipped into a nearby meeting room as soon as she exited the turbolift. She knew Will needed her to deal with the pheromone issue—and she'd have to anyway if she wanted to perform surgery without wearing an entire floral shop around her neck—but first she needed to regain control of her sickbay.

She grabbed what she needed from the replicator and jogged the last hundred feet to her domain.

"Halt," Dr. Selar said as soon as the doors closed behind Beverly.

Beverly didn't break stride, instead she ran at Selar and tossed a wreath of flowers at the Vulcan's face. She flinched and caught the plants. Her stern expression registered confusion then certainty as the strong scent of lilacs filled the room.

"Dr. Crusher," Selar said, "I believe I am incorrectly attired." The Vulcan paused after removing the additional pip from her collar, and tilted her head. "And so, I believe, are you."

Beverly glanced at her beige jumpsuit and shrugged. "I don't have time to change right now. I need you to make sure everyone wears a bouquet and keeps wearing it at all times. The scent blocks the pheromones in the air."

Selar nodded.

"And, Dr. Selar?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for taking such good care of my sickbay. I need you to start working on a way to effectively remove the pheromones from the ship's systems while I tend to the captain."

"Yes, sir."

Beverly took a deep breath and marched toward the utility closet at the end of the corridor.

She held the wreath close to her nose and prayed she'd remember to rescue the right man.


	30. Chapter 30

Beverly entered the utility closet and gasped. The ambassador, awake and livid, lay bound by dozens of sticky vines. He writhed against his bonds and glared at her.

She glared back.

"Beverly," Jean-Luc whispered.

She stepped over the ambassador and crouched by Jean-Luc's side.

"Beverly," he said again.

"I'm here, Jean-Luc," she said, grasping his hand. "I'm right here."

A small smile touched his ashen lips and her chest constricted. If she didn't do something soon, she was going to lose him. She darted over to the ambassador's side and pulled a hypospray and biomonitor from her jumper pocket. She hadn't bothered to change into a uniform, but she had picked up a few instruments on her way through sickbay.

"As much as I loathe wasting time on you," she said, "I need to be reasonably sure you won't be able to cause trouble while I'm cutting the c... c... captain out of the mess you created."

Beverly resented the pull, however faint, of the psychotropic plants. In the small room, the effect of the vines intensified, and she worried her stutter over referring to Jean-Luc as the captain was only the first sign of worse to come.

"If you free him, you'll kill him," the ambassador said. "Besides, as soon as you separate him from the vines, they will release me. And let me assure you, when I regain my freedom, you won't live long enough to regret it."

Beverly smiled. "That's why I'm going to do this," she said as she pressed the hypospray to the ambassador's neck. She'd programmed a much higher dose; one that should keep him under for at least ten hours. She placed the biomonitor on his forehead, just to be safe. The last thing Beverly wanted was the ambassador to die before either standing trial in the Federation, or being fed piecemeal to the Parnellians.

Looking at Jean-Luc, she was fine with either option.

Satisfied the monitor was functioning properly—and would sound an alarm should he begin to regain consciousness—she pulled another tool from her pocket and moved next to Jean-Luc.

"I don't know how this will affect you," she said, "but I'm hoping to remove the majority of your bonds before moving you into surgery."

He squeezed her hand and nodded.

"Tell me if the pain is too much. I can sedate you if you'd like."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "My thoughts... Keeping crew sane..."

Beverly's fingers went numb and she nearly dropped the pruning shears. Trust Jean-Luc Picard to use his incredible force of will to prevent the pheromones' mind altering effects from driving almost one thousand souls insane.

"That's going to make surgery a little tricky," she muttered.

The ghost of a grin crossed his features, and she knew what it meant: we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

She took a steadying breath and examined the tangle of vines from every angle before choosing one to cut. Just like Nana's rose bushes on Caldos, she knew the best course of action was just to get right in and start cutting.

She snipped a small tendril from a larger vine. It had curled itself around Jean-Luc's left thumb, and she watched his face as she pulled the sticky flora from his skin. He winced, more from the pulling of the suckers than the cut—she hoped—but showed no other sign of discomfort.

She dropped the plant to the deck and chose another.

And another.

And another.

Her world shrank to the task of snipping, pulling, and dropping. She circled the chair more than a dozen times, searching for larger and larger vines that could be safely removed. When she had eliminated all the plant life serving as his bonds, she contemplated snipping a vine that had embedded itself under his skin.

The problem was, she didn't know what separating him would do, and she was terrified she might kill him.


	31. Chapter 31

Beverly crouched in front of Jean-Luc and pondered. A small, almost hair-thin vine pierced one of the veins on the surface of his right hand. She tried to gauge its function, to understand precisely how it was using Jean-Luc for its own means—and what removing it would do to Jean-Luc—but all she had were hypotheses, and an incorrect one could be deadly.

Jean-Luc placed his left hand over her right where it rested on his knee.

"Do it," he whispered.

"But—"

"You must."

"What if—"

He shook his head. "This has to end, now."

Beverly nodded and brought the trimmers to the point where the vine burrowed under his skin. "This might hurt," she said. _Talk about an understatement_, she thought grimly.

She snipped and Jean-Luc arched his back, bucking against the chair. His breath came in short hisses as he worked to bring his body under control. Beverly rubbed her thumb across his knuckles as a viscous black-green fluid seeped from the wound.

Jean-Luc shuddered and said, "Again."

She gritted her teeth and chose another small vine.


	32. Chapter 32

The alarm on the ambassador's biomonitor was her only clue as to how much time had passed. She'd been so focused on separating plant from man, she'd blocked out everything else. She had no idea how—or if—Will had resolved the Parnellian standoff, and couldn't even guess at Selar's progress with neutralizing the pheromones.

Beverly dug her knuckles into her back as she stepped over to the ambassador. Most of the vines holding him prisoner showed considerable signs of wilt. Whatever their connection to Jean-Luc, it was weakening.

She pulled the hypospray from her pocket and knelt next to the Shintori.

"Nighty night," she whispered as she administered another ten-hour dose. He would have a headache on par with a supernova when he finally awoke, and she doubted her strongest analgesic would do much more than dull the pain.

And frankly, she didn't care.

She returned to Jean-Luc's side and rested her palms on his knees.

He opened his eyes and she watched as he struggled to focus on her. She rubbed his thighs and smiled.

"I don't think I can do any more without causing you permanent damage."

He blinked.

"The only vines left are the ones attached to your spinal column and major organs. And I refuse to remove those with nothing more than my grandmother's favourite pair of snippers."

Jean-Luc nodded.

"I'm going to set up a make-shift surgery in here using one of the mobile operating units." She continued to rub his legs, not only for him, but to reassure herself too. "Once that's in place we'll begin the process of removing the remaining plants at the cellular level."

He nodded again.

"You're _not_ going to want me to do that while you're awake," Beverly added, "so we'll just have to hope Dr. Selar has made sufficient progress on neutralizing the pheromones."

Jean-Luc's eyes widened and he whispered, "Can't take the chance..."

Beverly squeezed his knees. "We have to. I can't take the chance that the stress on your system, should you remain conscious, won't kill you." _And I can't take the chance I'll lose you – again_.

"Doctor..."

"Captain..."

"Order you..." he said.

She snorted. "You wouldn't dare."

"Court martial..." he added, his eyes gleaming with a hint of humour.

"I'd like to see you try."

He rolled his eyes and sighed, which was her cue to get the OR mobilized. Beverly stood and pressed her lips to his forehead. "I promised I would do everything within my power to save you, and I meant it." She pulled back far enough to meet his eyes. "Just once though, it'd be so nice if you'd be a cooperative patient."

Jean-Luc shook his head in mock—or at least semi-mock—refusal.

She smiled and bent down to whisper in his ear, "I love you, Jean-Luc Picard, and don't you ever forget it."


	33. Chapter 33

The man stirred and sent his consciousness out along his feelers. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep _her_ safe. He tried to push his awareness beyond his physical body and frowned.

Something was wrong.

He tried again as the first chill prickles of stress tapped against his spine.

He pressed his will against the wall enclosing his mind but, try as he might, he couldn't breach it. The soft beeping of an alarm matched his frustration. He had to keep them safe, he couldn't fail now.

"Welcome back, Captain."

The man opened his eyes. He hadn't sensed another presence so close to him. If only he could reach out to the rest of the ship—

She smiled, and he thought he detected relief in her expression; relief that he could no longer protect his people.

"It's all right, Captain," she said, apparently sensing his thoughts, "you're safe. We're all safe."

He shook his head. The man knew the ship was in danger. The man knew _she_ needed him. The man knew—

"Do you remember who you are?" the woman asked. Her accent struck him as familiar, and he sent out feelers to access the information he needed to answer her question. Once again, his efforts met with no results. The man was trapped in his own body.

"Troi to Crusher," the woman said, as she tapped the metal on her top. "The captain is awake."

"I'll be right there," came the exhausted reply.

The man knew that voice. His awareness met the same wall again, but this time something told him to look within himself, not without. He closed his eyes and searched through the network of memories embedded in his mind.

"He's trying to connect his consciousness with the psychotropic plants again," the woman said. "I can sense the effort he's expending."

A different woman sighed. "I expected as much. The flora re-wrote many of his neural pathways, and it's going to take time for the old paths of thinking and perceiving to reassert themselves."

The man sifted through his limited mental files, desperate to connect context to the familiar voice. He waited for her to speak again, but when she didn't, he opened his eyes.

Blue eyes that matched the hue of her uniform gazed back at him. Dark smudges of exhaustion marred her porcelain skin, but she still took his breath away.

"Beverly," he whispered.

The dark-haired woman raised an eyebrow.

The redhead—Beverly—stepped closer to his side and clasped his hand between hers. "I'm right here."

The man relaxed. She was here.

She was safe.

He ran his thumb along her palm, revelling in the smooth texture and warmth radiating from her skin. It seemed like forever since he'd used his physical senses to experience the world, and he'd forgotten how powerful something as small as a touch could be.

A faint blush crept up Beverly's neck, disappearing behind her ears. He recalled a diplomatic banquet where he'd leaned over and whispered something—he thought it might have had something to do with the carbonization of the water-dwelling lifeform on the platter in front of him—and he'd watched, pleased with himself, as the same blush appeared then too.

"Salmon," he said.

Beverly's brows drew together. "Salmon?"

He frowned. She wasn't understanding him.

"Beverly blush salmon time," he said. The man decided communicating would be much easier if he could reach out with his feelers and make her understand.

The two women exchanged looks.

Beverly pulled a stool close to the bed and sat, keeping their hands entwined. "Do you remember where you are?"

He nodded and she smiled in relief.

"Ship."

"Yes," she said as she squeezed his hand. He was overcome with the desire to please her again, so he added, "Empty black."

"Empty black?" she repeated, frowning. "Oh, space! Yes, we're in space. What else do you remember?"

He thought. He didn't bother trying to send his feelers out. He knew she wanted information from within his own mind. He searched his neural pathways for words and images she would understand.

"Coffee," he said.

She smiled.

"Large table, gold ship, chair."

She nodded. "The observation lounge. Good job."

"Bridge, ready room, fish, tea, sofa."

"Do you remember who you are?" she asked.

The man paused.

"Man," he said.

She shook her head and his heart lurched as a little of the happiness in her eyes faded. He didn't understand. He was just the man.

"Do you remember your name?"

"Beverly."

She shook her head. "That's my name. I am Beverly. You are Jean-Luc. Each of us has a name."

"Jean-Luc," he whispered, as a cascade of images flooded his mind. He squeezed her hand and said, "Picard."

She beamed.

He closed his eyes, ready to sleep again.

"We'll continue our conversation in a few hours, once we've both had a chance to rest," Beverly said.

The man—Picard—opened his eyes and watched the two women move to exit the room. "Beverly," he said before the door could close behind them.

She stopped, waved the other woman on, and returned to his side. "Yes?"

He smiled, anticipating her reaction to his next words. "Never forget, love, Picard, I."

Beverly blinked.

He frowned. Had he said it wrong? He tried to remember.

She blinked again and he noticed wetness in the corners of her eyes. He searched his memory for a solution. He upset her. His words must have been wrong.

Beverly placed her hands on either side of his head and leaned in close. She brushed her lips against his cheek and he shivered. Her thumbs caressed the corners of his mouth as she whispered, "Yes, you're absolutely correct."

He said the only words he could think of, "Man, too, Beverly."

She brushed her lips across his and said, "I know," then fled from the room.


	34. Chapter 34

Beverly sat in her customary place for the senior officers' briefing. Will Riker sat in the captain's chair, looking every inch the Starfleet commander, and she clenched her jaw. She shouldn't be upset Will was in charge—and she wasn't, really—she was frustrated Jean-Luc was unable to take his place at the head of the table.

When she'd put him under for the operation, several things had happened. The worst being that some of the security detail assigned to searching out and destroying the plants had turned and vowed to protect the plants at all costs. Worf and Riker had fought what was tantamount to a civil war—over damn cacti—for more than ten hours until Geordi found a way to isolate the 'rebels' in an area of the ship, which was then flooded with sleeping gas.

More than two dozen people had been injured in the various battles, and five of them were still recuperating in her sickbay. She'd come out of Jean-Luc's surgery, dead on her feet, and stumbled into chaos. Nurse Ogawa had urged her to rest, but while she'd avoided the more mentally draining tasks like surgery, she remained on duty repairing sprains, fractures, and abrasions.

Once the rush dwindled to a trickle, she'd collapsed onto her bed—still in uniform—only to have Deanna page her, telling her Jean-Luc had awoken.

And now, less than four hours later, Will Riker wanted a report on the captain's condition and an estimate for when he'd be fit to return to duty.

"I have managed to confirm thirteen of the nineteen reported attacks," Data said to Riker, "and am working on the remaining six. I should have verification of the Parnellian accounts of our actions in less than eight hours, sir."

Riker nodded. "Thank you, Data. It's good to have you back."

Data tilted his head. "It is good to be back, sir, but you should understand I had no awareness of the passage of time while in the cargo bay. I was—"

Geordi paled and looked as though he might be ill. Deanna leaned forward and interrupted the android, "Data, the commander is simply expressing a sentiment. He missed your presence during these past few weeks."

"Ah," said Data, "then thank you, sir. I would have missed your presence too, had I been aware."

Deanna hid a wince and deliberately avoided glancing in Geordi's direction. Beverly was five consecutive duty shifts beyond exhausted, and even she could sense the discomfort and guilt radiating from the chief engineer.

As soon as the plants' effects weakened and people began to recall the 'alternate' reality, Geordi began having flashbacks of mutilating—carving up—a fellow crewmember. The visions were so real he'd locked himself in the brig, convinced he was a murderer. Refusing to believe Geordi's confession, Will had demanded the engineer show him where he'd hidden the body.

Geordi led Will and Worf to the cargo bay and they'd found Data—inactive and in pieces—carefully packed in a case marked 'dry goods.' Geordi had set to work immediately to restore his friend, but the guilt of having deactivated him in the first place was still haunting him. Beverly hoped he'd continue to see Deanna until he'd worked through it all.

She knew she'd be talking to the counselor for some time about her guilt over being complicit in Jean-Luc's imprisonment.

Beverly shuddered.

Deanna met her gaze and she shrugged. She was too tired to hide anything from the empath.

"Doctor?"

Beverly started and stared at Riker. "Sorry, Commander, I missed that."

Will smiled in understanding. "I asked for your latest assessment of the captain's condition."

She sighed. "It's early yet, so I don't have any definitive answers. What I can tell you is the plants significantly altered his neural pathways, and removing them caused further damage despite my best efforts. It will take time for him to relearn how to think like a human."

_If he does at all_, she added silently.

"Should we send him to the JI?" Riker asked.

Beverly shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was send Jean-Luc to the psychologists at the Jungian Institute, but she knew if he failed to show any significant improvements, she'd have no choice. If he needed their expertise, she'd make sure he got it, but the notion he was so damaged as to require it made her queasy.

"The Parnellians are our top priority. They need our testimony in their charges against the ambassador and the entire Shintori government. We owe them that much at least."

Will nodded. "Keep us informed, Doctor, and if it looks as though the captain needs the JI, we'll make it happen."

"Thank you, Commander."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur for Beverly as thoughts of her bed—and at least nine hours of dreamless sleep—blocked out all other rational thought.


	35. Chapter 35

Beverly waited for Jean-Luc to answer the door chime. She'd discharged him to his quarters less than twenty-four hours after he'd awoken from his surgery. His physical wounds were well on their way to healing over and he no longer required constant medical care.

He was, however, still unfit for duty.

She prayed she'd hear his standard, "Come," and was disappointed—but not surprised—when he opened the door himself and greeted her.

"Doctor," he said, "pleasure to see you... reading logs... much learned... do please enter... quarters most welcome... can beverage you get?"

She smiled and tried to hide the knife twisting in her side. She'd done this to him. She hadn't been skilled enough. She'd done her best and failed. Jean-Luc Picard may never serve as a Starfleet officer again, and it was all her fault.

"Yes, thank you," she said. He walked over to the replicator then looked back at her expectantly. "Coffee, please," she added.

He ordered two and joined her on the sofa. He passed her the mug of steaming liquid and she inhaled the rich aroma as she ordered her thoughts.

"You mentioned you were reading some logs," she said. "Yours?"

He nodded.

Beverly waited to see if he would elaborate, but he seemed content to stare at her over the lip of his cup. She found the scrutiny disconcerting and began to fidget.

Finally she said, "Jean-Luc, you're staring."

"Yes." He smiled.

She couldn't help smiling in return even though she wondered if this was yet another manifestation of the damage done to his neural pathways.

"Why?"

Jean-Luc's smile faded as he concentrated. Beverly watched and her heart ached to see him struggle with something that used to come so easily to him.

"I am... trying to... understand," he said.

"Understand what?" she asked, praying he would continue to speak logically.

"Us."

"Us..." Beverly repeated.

_Is he talking about 'us' us, or is he confusing his words?_ she wondered.

"Yes," he said. "Us."

Beverly swallowed; her mouth suddenly drier than an Arveda summer. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

He closed his eyes and focused again.

"I have many... gaps... in my memories," Jean-Luc said, "yet... you so many... moments... with me."

"We've known each other a very long time."

He shook his head, frustrated. "I feel... remember feel... candles."

"Let's try one of the exercises Dr. Ignatio at the JI recommended." Beverly reached for his hand and squeezed. "Close your eyes and imagine what you want to say has already been said in a log entry. How would it sound? What words did you choose to frame it, to give it context for the listener?"

Jean-Luc closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Beverly traced her thumb along the back of his knuckles as he worked through the exercise. Both she and Deanna had been working with him several hours each shift to help re-build the damaged synapses.

His breathing slowed and Beverly lost herself in the feel of his hand in hers. She caressed the tiny scars on his first two knuckles—scars from a run-in with a Naussican that weren't treated because they were too busy saving his life by implanting an artificial heart—and let some of her own stress drain away. Despite the oddness of the topic, she had to admit his language was improved today. She hoped the exercise would help capitalize on their progress.

"My memories are more... than images," Jean-Luc said, bringing her back. "I remember feelings. How I felt as I lived those... moments."

"That's excellent news," Beverly said. "Recalling emotions, and not just events, is a huge step forward, Jean-Luc."

He squeezed her hand in return.

"Yes, but I still... do not... understand... us."

Goosebumps raced up Beverly's arms. "What do you mean?"

"Feelings do not match actions."

Heat blossomed across her cheekbones. They'd walked the line of mutual attraction longer than Wesley had been alive. "I can see where you might be confused."

_Hell, some days—usually after a rather unprofessional dream or two—_I'm_ confused about where we are, or should be_, she thought.

"I want... to..." he let his words drift off, as if afraid to say more.

"Go on."

"I want to... kiss you, and I do not... understand why... I have not."

Beverly's pulse thundered in her ears. She should bring the conversation back around to his progress. Or to his upcoming appointment with Deanna. Or to arranging a visit to the bridge. Or really to anything other than what they were currently discussing.

"You love me," he said.

A thin trickle of sweat formed between her shoulder blades. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. Indisputable since she knew it was one hundred percent true.

She nodded, afraid to breathe.

"When I am... well..." he said, "we will... speak on this... more."


	36. Chapter 36

Beverly rang the chime on the captain's quarters and bounced on the balls of her feet as she waited to be granted entrance.

"Come."

She smiled and strode through the doors. Jean-Luc stood in front of his sofa, a PADD in one hand, and gestured at the already-set breakfast table. She made her way to her usual spot and sat. The butterflies in her stomach threatened to overpower her appetite.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Indeed," he replied. "Not even in my earliest Academy days did I yearn to sit in the 'Big Chair' so strongly."

"You didn't know what you were missing back then," Beverly said, then added, "Besides, that was eons ago, and today's chairs are far more comfortable."

Jean-Luc laughed. "Very true. Nothing but the best for the flagship of the Federation."

"Now, just because you've been cleared for duty doesn't mean I want you running around, saving the galaxy on your first shift—"

"Doctor—"

"Captain—"

"I will not have you molly-coddling—"

"I'm not 'molly-coddling,' I'm simply advocating a gradual return to work. You don't need to single-handedly defeat the Borg in order to prove you're fit to command."

Jean-Luc looked as though he was about to protest then changed his mind. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes as he said, "All right."

Beverly arched an eyebrow, suspicious.

"I will take it easy and leave all the galaxy-saving to Will."

Her left eyebrow rose to join her right. "You will?"

"On one condition."

Beverly took a sip of coffee to give herself time to consider where he was going with this line of conversation. "And that would be?" she eventually asked.

"You'll have dinner with me tonight."

She relaxed slightly. He knew he needed to take it easy, and was just teasing her because he knew he could get a reaction. She picked a croissant from the plate and pulled off a bite.

"Of course," she replied. "I was expecting a full report on your first shift anyway. We might as well enjoy a meal while we discuss—"

"And stay for breakfast tomorrow morning," he added.

The croissant dropped to table with a soft thud.

"I wasn't expecting _that_," she whispered, unable to catch her breath as a million butterflies pounded against her lungs.

Jean-Luc leaned across the table and took her now-empty hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Fire raced across Beverly's skin, matching her heartbeat.

He took his gaze from hers and studied the fingers he held. He spotted a tiny flake of pastry on her index finger and brought her hand to his mouth again. He closed his lips around her finger and removed the offending piece of croissant with his tongue.

Beverly stifled a moan.

"Jean-Luc, I—"

"Beverly, you were the only reason I didn't give up and let the plants consume me. _You_; not this ship nor her crew," Jean-Luc said. He gently kissed the tips of each remaining finger and her stomach plummeted to her feet. "Nothing, not my duty to Starfleet, nor my own sense of self-preservation could have withstood those vines. I fought to stay in my own mind—and I fought to help you rediscover yours—because I simply cannot fathom a universe without you."

"Jean-Luc..." she tried to speak past the lump in her throat and failed.

"I love you," he said, "with every breath in my body. I always have, and I always will."

He reached across the table and rested his hand against her cheek. His thumb gently wiped away the moisture from the corner of her eye while his fingers twined themselves into her hair. She closed her eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm.

"Please tell me you love me too," he whispered.

The soft plea—so open and vulnerable—ripped through her chest like a burst dam, releasing a flood of pent-up emotions.

"Yes, Jean-Luc," she replied, "I love you. I love your wit, your charm, and damn it, even your intractable stubbornness."

"Then tell me you'll stay," he said. "Tell me we can stop dancing around the elephant in the room."

She shook her head. "It's not that simple. Life in Starfleet is dangerous—"

"Would you mourn me any less if I died as your friend and not as your lover?"

Beverly's stomach flip-flopped at the mention of 'lover.' She shook her head. Losing Jean-Luc would be like losing a vital organ, no matter what their relationship.

"The only difference for me," he said, "is I would face an eternity of regret if I lost you now. Losing you would crush me beyond redemption, but losing you without ever having acted upon my feelings for you would be infinitely worse."

He was right, she knew. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if he died and all she was left with was, "If only..."

Still, the notion of opening her heart to someone so completely again made her limbs numb and her stomach rebel.

"It's impossible to fear giving away something you no longer possess."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I lost my heart to you years ago, and you gave me yours too—we've just been too frightened to admit it." He caressed her temple and shifted his chair so they sat knee to knee. "And it's time for that to stop. No more pretending."

"What if it doesn't work out?"

"What if it does?"

"I don't want to lose what we already have."

"Do you honestly think we'll still be this close if either of us finds another partner?"

Beverly flashed back to her liaison with the Trill ambassador, Odan. Even with the euphoria of being romantically involved again, she couldn't escape the sense of loss as Jean-Luc pulled away. And, she had to admit, she'd wanted to gouge that tramp, Vash's eyes out when she'd shown up on the ship.

"One of us is either going to get promoted, posted elsewhere, or worse. As much as remaining 'just friends' seems like the safest course of action, we're only deluding ourselves."

Beverly sighed as her fear gave way to relief. It was time to drop the act. "I've wanted to touch you, to hold you, to be close to you as more than your physician for a long time now."

Jean-Luc leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. Beverly closed her eyes as a jolt of a thousand phasers set on stun passed between them.

"Then stay with me."

He kissed her lips again.

"Tonight."

He moved his mouth along her jaw.

"Tomorrow."

Then traced the line of her neck to the collar of her uniform top.

"Forever."

THE END


End file.
